Mars' Bar

Feb 07 2022

Hi I’m Liam. I shag supermodels and drive fast cars. I drove a Ferrari to work today. Check it, a san-peli-gree-no. I drove a Porsche yesterday. A 999. The one with the droopy headlights. I like scaring the kids going to school on their school bus with my big car. But I don’t go to school. I go to the city, because I’m a City Trader. I make loads of money there. Today I was paid half a million quid. I made a big trade. I bought low and sold high.

So does my dad. He makes more than I do. Everyone else at work respects him. Nobody ever calls him a tosser. He’s big. He is important, a big shot, and so am I. He shouts at his mates. Everyone listens to him. His hair is greying. He dyes it, tells it to fuck off. Some prickly bastards stay there. No-one notices. I play pretend.

When he comes back in his Lambo Mum and I are sat at the table. The food is cold. The wallpaper’s peeling so the workmen are coming next week, Dad tells me. EastEnders is playing on the TV. There’s a big black line down the middle of the screen. Mum wants a new one, but Dad watches stocks on his phone. He talks shit about that wanker Dick at work not doing as he’s told. I’m saving money for a Christmas present for Mum.

Yeah, I’ve got ambition.

We eat. Porridge tonight. Dad’s on a diet. He doesn’t want us to have tastier food than him so we nosh it too. He gets jealous easy, but I get it. He makes what he wants happen.

Sometimes, after supper, I sneak a Mars bar to my room. Sometimes, Dad comes inside, and he declares me a knobhead. He’s looking out for me. He doesn’t say so but I’m quicker than he thinks I am. I like knowing what he doesn’t, so I can surprise him. He goes. Mars himself goes for my mum.

My boss gave me homework tonight. I do it, quick. It’s easy. My Mum watches me work sometimes. She says she’s worried sick about me, about my dad, but she should sod off. The work’s never a problem. Dad just needs to get what he wants. When I’m done with it, I grin at her so hard she turns into a splodge, of purple and grey. She punts the door closed behind her and hobbles over to me. She talks at me. She’s trying to do me in. My Dad has nish to do with this. I keep my grin up. Anything to stop this. She calls me a prick. I’m stronger for it — and she might be too.

Bedtime. I always sleep early. It helps my brain. I dream big.

I wake up on Tuesday morning for my nine-to-five, so I get in my Maserati. I wink at Callum, trodding his way to maths class. Finger-guns at Clive from second form. I leave them in a puff of smoke as I head for the Standard Chartered. I smoke a fag on the way. I’m managing many peoples’ bank accounts today. Bonds’n shit. Like 007. I’m better than the work but I do it anyway. I’ve the stones for it.

I get back by three forty. They let me go earlier cos I did such a good job. Mum’s not in her usual spot. I see her purple wool jumper caught on the staircase, torn to pieces, pieces left on the floor an’ on the railing. Dad’s punched holes in the wallpaper again. She’s surely not coming home for supper tonight. We’ve got leftovers from yesterday. I can’t be arsed to call her. She can clean up her own fucking mess.