Young Lad yawns under a cobwebbed bulb that may well have come from Noah’s Ark itself. As he runs water into two large bottles, screws on their caps, the old and jaundiced kitchen clock slogs towards midnight.

He cradles the bottles under an arm. Pauses in the doorway. Birds outside have finally stopped singing. Oxygen hisses gently from the downstairs bedroom.

He heads up to his own room then, windows open for weeks in a futile effort to disperse the gelatinous and unrelenting heat. Young Lad can’t remember the last time he felt a breeze.

He lies on the bed. Places bottled water either side of his body, jerking against the initial cool, before easing both arms down against them. This is the way to sleep in the furnace of July, in an emerald country that isn’t built for hot weather.

The following morning, he wakes to birds already in song.

Light sweat.

Slither of sun creeping the curtain-gap.

Bottles no longer cool.

He carries them downstairs then, pausing in the kitchen doorway. His spot. From the nearby bedroom, gentle snores break against whispering oxygen like sea lapping beach.

It used to be, he couldn’t smell anything untoward here in the doorway, but illness has a way of spreading its odours and accompanying clinical smells, to the point where he feels like he’s living in a hospital.

He sets his bottles of water by the sink then.

Stares into an almost empty fridge, and same, for an almost empty larder.

Opens a tin of beans.

Slugs them into a bowl.

Places a small plate over the top to keep flies out.

Pulls a drawer and sifts through pieces of paper for the one he wants. Sets it beside the beans.

Microwave. Two Mins.

Runs water into a glass.

Downs it.

Refills and leaves it next to the beans.

From the high cupboard, he takes down a compartmentalized plastic container labelled with days of the week. Thumbs open Wednesday. Fingertips the kaleidoscope of tablets onto the counter, puts the container away and heads out into a muggy morning, easing the door back into its latch.

Young Lad walks along Heath Avenue where the lampposts cast long shadows.

Gardens mostly nondescript, except one, necklaced with white stones. The adjacent house has no garden at all, just concrete. A shitty red car. Bumper-sticker:

If she’s not red, keep ‘er in the shed.

He slows at number eighteen. The weird house. Centre-piece hedge, shaped like a large bird. Garden cluttered with outdoor ornaments – gnomes, rabbits, bird houses, sundials. Greek-looking nudist statues – an affront to the entire street.

Young Lad quietly shakes his head. They might as well burn the money.

At the end of the street, he takes right, follows a road for a mile-and-a-half and counts the chestnut trees. This is where the voice used to take him as a child, to gather conkers, back when it was normal and spoke without torment and had a name.

He reaches the sign for Hodgson Concrete. Gates already open.

Clouds of dust lingering in the yard like inverted sky. A water sprinkler jettisons in starts. 

Sprays. Adjusts.

Turns.

Sprays again.

To his right, two stacked metal containers form some kind of office.

A door bursts open, man in jeans and tatty vest striding across the yard.

Before Young Lad can decide whether to approach, the man is up into the cab of a cement mixer, engine thundering, giant cylinder turning, crunch of gears, then the lorry growls past, brakes squealing at the gates.

Smoke sputters from a vertical silver pipe, then the entire beast roars and spurts out onto the road in a wake of dust.

Young Lad danders further into the yard of shouting machinery and hard-hatted men in plastic goggles. A forklift loaded with bags of sand whirrs by. He briefly watches the stacking of slabs, a dangling pipe pouring concrete across moulds, then approaches a bristle-faced auld fellow with bushed eyebrows, sagged worn jeans and legs so bowed he must have ridden horses all of his life.

‘Have ye any jabs goin’?

The auld fella steps away from his machine. Leans an ear. ‘What’d you say?’

‘Have ye any jabs goin’?’

‘Jabs?’

‘Aye!’

The auld fella narrows his eyes. Hawks phlegm into his throat. Spits like a bullet into the dust. Scowls then at the poor young lad, as though he’s never before, in his entire hardened life, saw someone so stupid.

‘What in the holy blue dung-shit are you on about – what’s a jab?’

‘Ye know – a jab? Work!’

‘Ohhh! A JOB!’ He laughs his way into a fit of coughing. Hawks up more phlegm. Spits. ‘You’ll not get a jab if you can’t bloody talk right.’

Young Lad glares into the auld fella’s cursed green eyes.

Briefly clenches one fist.

Turns.

Heads for the gates.

The morning is thick and warm as a quilt.

He walks half a mile, maybe three quarters. Sun pooling the road, cutting into his eyes.

Tarmac will melt again today.

He stops at an opening. Cows lounge in the field to his right. Rattle of a distant tractor.

As he danders up the hedge-lined lane, sparks of yellow gorse drink in the sun.

A cottage. Low-roofed. Cowering.

He knocks.

Waits for an answer that doesn’t arrive.

Continues into a mucky yard. Huge sheds on both sides. Cavernous moos bounce the metal roofs.

A woman plods around the far corner pushing a wheelbarrow.

Welly boots. Checkered shirt. Rolled up sleeves.

‘Excuse me, have ye any jabs goin’?’

‘Talk to the boss.’ She nods towards a shed.

As he steps inside, the smell assaults him in waves of dung, animals, straw, damp and mud, and he immediately doesn’t want a jab here. But his mind returns home, the haggard voice from the downstairs bedroom, calling through to the kitchen – that’s ye finished with school. Uhhhhh…no more summers aff…uhhhh-huh…ye need a jab! Must is a great master!

He finds himself before a horizontally-barred pen, with the biggest goddamned bull he’s ever seen, lying in straw with his two curling horns, massive metal ring clasped into his wet nose. Brown. Suede-like. Skits of manure pebble-dashing his legs and belly.

Young Lad glances the long row of pens. Spots an auld fellow leaning on a stick. Heads on down.

‘Excuse me, are ye the boss?’

‘Depends. Are you the taxman?’

‘Nope.’

‘TV Licence Inspector?’

‘Nope’

‘Are you sellin’ arms for Colonel Gaddafi?’

‘Kernel Ga-Who?’

‘I’m only windin’ you, lad!’ He chuckles. One perfect white tooth among the yellows.

‘Do ye have any jabs goin’?’

The boss nods. ‘You’re after a jab? Uh-huh.’ He studies the dirty ground, as though an answer might be found there. Cheeks swirled crimson from a lifetime outdoors.

‘Aye.’

‘I’ve nothin’ at the minute now, but sure, leave your number and I’ll give you a buzz if somethin’ comes up. We’ll be pullin’ apples come September and –’

‘Never mind.’ Young Lad tightens one hand into a fist. Shakes his head.

Stops to drink from a hose on his way out. Doesn’t have a telephone number and can’t wait until September.

As he heads for town then, sweat trickles his spine and it’s a shitter of a day to be turning sixteen and out hunting for a jab.

He passes the off-licence, a place he hadn’t considered.

Stops. Illuminated Harp Lager sign in the window.

Enters to an electronic beep-boop.

Stands in the cool room. Fridges. Bottles. Cans. Fridges with bottles and cans. A smiling man with a short-sleeved shirt, blue tie and a combover, appears from a doorway.

‘Some day! Wha! Ye could fry bacon on the very pavement.’

Young Lad glances around. Knows nothing about alcohol.

‘What’s good fer thirst?’

‘Water.’ Smiles the man.

‘No, I mean, what drink’s good fer thirst?’

‘Water.’

‘No! I mean…’

‘Have ye any ID, son?’

‘Nope.’

‘Well, ye’ll be gettin’ nothin’ in here then without ID.’

‘Is that right?’ Young Lad takes a step toward the counter. Squares his shoulders. Fists clenched.

‘Alright Billy Big Balls, settle yerself.’ The man raises a stern finger. ‘And don’t let the door hit ye on the way out.’ He turns and disappears back through the doorway.

Young Lad finds himself back outside. Breathing in air that is thick like gravy. Squinting.

It was lovely and cool in there.

He returns inside.

Beep-boop.

As the smiling man emerges once again from the doorway, his smile slides off and pools on the counter like melted tar. He sighs. ‘Are ye gonna make me get the bat?’

‘Listen, have ye any jabs goin’?’

‘What age are ye?’

‘Twenty-five.’

‘Yer no more twenty-five than I’m Clint Eastwood!’ His face fills with pity then. ‘What age are ye right enough?’

‘Sixteen.’

The man shakes his head. Eyes soften at their corners.

Young Lad looks to the floor tiles. ‘Sixteen the day.’

‘Listen, ye have to be eighteen to work around drink, son. Come back and see me in two years’ time.’

Young Lad clenches his jaw.

‘Here, son,’ the man sets a bag of Salt n Vinegar crisps on the counter. ‘Happy Birthday.’

Young Lad stares at them. This cool place. This gift. Could be heaven. Could be what life was like before his only parent became ill, then cranky, then a monster. And the only way to deal with it would be distance, first by the kitchen doorway, then by rendering them nameless, a non-person. Merely a voice.

‘Thanks.’ He takes the crisps. Pauses by the door. ‘Yer sign in the window is still lit. Waste of electric.’

He walks on up past the butchers. Hairdressers. Mulberry café.

‘Hello.’ Someone touches his shoulder.

He turns to find a kind smiling face, edges of her brown hair aglow. ‘Sure, there’s school finished only yesterday and I’m bumping into you already!’

Young Lad doesn’t really know how to respond. Gives a polite nod. Squints a little.

‘What are you up to today? Enjoying the wonderful sunshine?’

‘Oh, just out and about Mrs. Kincaid.’

‘Well, lovely to see you and if I don’t bump into you again over the summer, I’ll see you in September!’

He doesn’t know where she gets this joy from. Always with the joy. Maybe it’s because she has a jab…

He heads for the doctors then. Didn’t tell her he wouldn’t be back in September, that he needed a jab, that there was a voice in his house that called out and called out and called out.

Young Lad walks up the alley to the doctors.

Pushes the door.

Doesn’t budge.

Stands with his hands out, what-the-hell style.

Spots the sign on the door: Closed Wed Afternoons.

Clenches both fists.

Continues down the alley towards the back of the grey building.

He shimmies a streetlight to reach the top of the wall, which for some reason is cemented with shards of glass.

Carefully climbs over.

Drops into a small yard.

Hunts among the bottles for O2 Oxygen.

Lifts one. No real way to determine empty or full, other than by weight.

Empty.

Tries another.

Empty.

Another.

Full.

He has to set the bottle up onto a metal cage, then climb it himself in order to reach the top of the jagged wall again.

Manoeuvres best he can.

Sits carefully onto the broken glass.

O2 tank across his lap.

Leaps.

Feels the rip into his hamstring.

Strikes the ground. Hammer against anvil. Impact reverberating both shins.

Carries the tank with him then for the rest of the day.

Tries the supermarket for a jab, where they ask for a CV, which he doesn’t have.

The hardware shop, where he has to wait for five minutes while two men discuss how to kill a weed. One weed!

Chinese restaurant.

Even the swimming pool and he doesn’t know how to swim.

Finally, he heads for home.

Enters the house quietly. Sets the oxygen tank on the hall carpet. Moves through to the kitchen, microwave door open, flies zip-circling inside at the light. Beans spilled on the counter, sauce drooling the cupboard. More beans on the floor. Empty, stained bowl in the sink.

‘Who’s that?’ The crackled voice drifts across from the bedroom.

‘It’s me. Who do ye think it is?’ Young Lad moves to the kitchen doorway, his spot, reaches up, fingertips hooking the architrave. Low hiss of oxygen. The bedroom door ajar.

‘Oh, it’s ye. Did ye get a jab or wha?’

‘Nope.’

‘No? Did ye say no?’

‘I did.’

‘In the name of God, how are we supposed to live!’ Coughing. Hiss of oxygen. The voice like a rusted guitar string. ‘I’ve taught ye everythin’ I know and ye know NOTHIN’!’

‘I’ll try again tomorrow.’

‘Yer a fuckin’ idiot!’ Wheezing. Grunts. Something gets knocked over and crackles to the floor. Sounds like spilled sweets. Or tablets.

Young Lad drops his arms. Clenches both fists.

Feels pain in the back of his thigh then. Pulls down his trousers. Small gash. Dried blood.

‘I got yer oxygen.’

‘Oxygen? Huh. Oxygen’s no good til me. I’m done. Another clean shirt will do me.’

‘Do ye need anythin?’ Young Lad is unsure what to even do with the cut on his leg. Pulls his trousers back up again.

‘I need ye…’ Coughing, deep and rattling and deathlike. ‘I need ye to get a fuckin’ jab!’ The coughing explodes. Volcanic. Rasping.

Settles then.

Young Lad listens. Focuses on the oxygen.

Steady would be someone dead.

Undulating, a person alive.

He remembers the Salt n Vinegar crisps in his pocket.

Sets them on the counter. They’ll do the voice tomorrow.

Hears the suck and hiss of lungs drawing containerized breath.

Sighs.

Washes the bowl in the sink.

Cleans the counters.

Empties his two sleeping bottles down the plughole and starts filling them again from the tap, ready for another hot night.