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“Tell them we don’t want any blasted cookies,” Murdoc says, his usual response to the doorbell. It’s more of a ritual than a joke because no one laughs, but it’s a Pavlovian habit. When no one else jumps up to get the door, Russel gets up, annoyed that he’ll have to resettle into a comfortable position in a minute. Everyone else remains in their claimed seats around the TV.
“Were you ‘expectin someone?” 2D asks Noodle, watching her play Animal Crossing over her shoulder. She doesn’t look up. She’s very focused on trying to catch a fish.
“Not today. Might be Ace, though,” she says.
“Tosser. Shows up unannounced like he pays rent,” Murdoc says.
Russel squints through the peephole of the front door. The uninvited guest on the other side is pointy and green-complexioned like Ace, but it’s not him. Different nose. Bald head. Much older.
“It’s not Ace,” Russel says. “I think it’s for you, Muds.”
“Tell them I’m dead. They can’t collect from me if I’m dead.”
“He’s green.”
Noodle and 2D look up at the sound of running footsteps and see Murdoc darting for the basement. If he were any more of a cartoon, there’d be a Murdoc-shaped cloud of dust where he sat. Noodle plops her game into 2D’s hands and follows after Murdoc in a light jog. It won’t be hard to catch up with him.
Afraid of being rude, Russel opens the door with a “Hey, can I help you?”
“Is Murdoc Niccals there?”
“I suppose that depends on who’s asking.”
“His brother. Hannibal. I’m sure you probably get that from every green bloke who shows up asking for money, but I’m not here for that.”
Russel knows one Niccals well enough to know not to trust another, but other than the scar arching around his temple, his moth-eaten jumper, and his weathered brow, he looks like he’s come in peace. His hands are empty, clasped in front of him like he’s making up for his surly reputation. His eyes seem genuine even though they’re sunken into a face curdled by a hard life with a bad attitude. Reminds Russel of someone else he knows. Definitely a Niccals.
“Alright, come in, Murdoc’ll be back in a second.”
Russel lets Hannibal by, shuts the door behind him, and leads him to the kitchen, keeping an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t nick anything on his way.
Hannibal gives a small, acknowledging wave to 2D as he passes by and 2D absent-mindedly waves back, unsure if he should recognize him. There’s too many green people to keep track of. Maybe Oscar the Grouch will show up next , he thinks to himself, and giggles at his own inner quip.
“I don’t know if Murdoc’s mentioned me but I don’t think it’d be in a positive light,” Hannibal says, accepting the cup of tea Russel clinks on the table in front of him. “I don’t blame him.”
“I know it’s not my place to grill you, but I have to ask, you know. Why now?” Russel asks, opting not to sit just yet and instead leaning against the table, propped by one arm with the other resting on his hip.
“Our paths never seemed to cross, yeah?” Hannibal says. “I’m in prison, he’s out; he’s in prison, I’m out; we’re both out, he’s halfway across the world and I’m still down on my luck in the same shithole I was stealing hubcaps as a kid. When I heard we’re in the same place for once, I figured it’s now or never.”
“So it’s been a while.”
“I haven’t seen him since he stormed out saying he was gonna make it big on his own without anyone telling him what to do anymore. And Christ! Has he!” Hannibal also talks with his hands, though not as wildly as Murdoc, who gesticulates like he’s conducting a grand orchestra. “He is here, right?”
“Yeah, he’s just in the middle of something,” Russel says. He hears Noodle’s voice traveling loudly through the floor. Their guest can definitely hear it too. Hannibal frowns at his tea.
“I have a feeling he won't be keen to see me. I wouldn’t be if I were him. He finally has the life he always wanted and I bet the last thing he wants is for the past to turn up out of the blue.”
“He’s hardly ever happy to see anyone,” Russel says, knowing Hannibal is unfortunately right.
Noodle’s voice draws closer mixed with Murdoc’s protests and a series of thumps. Hannibal and Russel turn their attention to the doorway as Noodle pushes Murdoc into the kitchen, both of them shouting over each other. As Murdoc locks eyes with the guest at the table, he, and seemingly everything else, fall silent. The traffic outside the open windows, the ticking of the wall clock, the beep-booping of 2D’s video game in the other room, everything fades into nothing as an awkward half-smile creaks across Hannibal’s chapped lips.
“Hey, Pipsqueak, how’ve you been?”
Murdoc curls his lip. “You better not be here to ask for money.”
“Just here to say hello. Haven’t gotten the chance. Who woulda thought that snot-nosed bugger I had to chase out of my room for touching my records would turn out so terrifically big? The first Niccals to make it out of sheer talent instead of conning and cheating?”
“I wouldn’t be so quick to discount cheating as a talent,” Murdoc says, softening to flattery.
“If cheatin’s a talent, then no one does it like you,” Hannibal motions to a chair across from him. “I made it all the way here so I’m not leaving just yet, you might as well sit.”
“Oi, I don’t take orders from anyone else in my own bloody house,” Murdoc says, pulling out the chair to sit anyway. “I was going to before you said anything.”
“Hope you’re okay with a party of three,” Noodle says, plopping beside Murdoc. “I want embarrassing stories.”
“Russ?”
“Don’t mind me,” Russel says, retrieving a bag of crisps from the cabinet and exiting stage right to join 2D in the adjacent room, still within earshot but out of the way.
“You’re Noodle,” Hannibal asks, pointing her way. “I remember catching your music videos on MTV back with that first album. Christ, I’m old.”
“How do you think I make him feel?” Noodle says, nudging Murdoc.
“Oh, no, she keeps me young,” Murdoc says, nudging her back slightly harder. “You watched our videos?”
“I tried my best to keep up. I bought the albums,” Hannibal says.
“Really?” Murdoc asks, in a tone that tries to sound aloof but can’t help but crack to reveal an ounce of sincerity.
“Well, I only paid for two of ‘em. Everyone was ‘sayin how great they were, I figured I would be the judge of that, it’s my pipsqueak brother after all and he’d be nowhere if I hadn’t introduced him to the Clash. I’d have to say my favorite was that earlier one, the uh, Demon Days .”
Noodle smiles smugly at Murdoc, who returns a side glance with a sneer. “Proper choice,” he says.
“The people are dying to know, what was Murdoc like as a kid?” Noodle says, leaning forward, chin propped on her hands with slumber-party glee.
Hannibal cracks Murdoc his half-smile. “He used to cry on my birthday cos it wasn’t about him.”
“What’s changed?” Noodle says.
Murdoc rolls his eyes. “I share a party every year with two other twats who had the audacity to be born near my birthday. And I’m quite polite about it, aren’t I? Even though I was here first.”
“Oi, Noodle, it won’t let me collect more apples,” 2D says from the doorway, holding the Nintendo Switch.
“The inventory is probably full. You don’t need more apples,” Noodle says.
“But I already got all these apples. Should I throw away some of the nets?”
“No! Give me that,” Noodle takes the Switch from 2D. While Noodle fiddles with the game, 2D looks up and seems to finally notice their guest. “Oh, hello, I’m 2D. I’m the singer.”
“I’ve heard.”
“I also can’t find the charger,” 2D says to Noodle, who sighs and hands him back the game.
“I’ll find it,” she mutters, and leaves, 2D following suit.
Now, the kitchen hosts Murdoc, Hannibal, and the awkward silence between them. Despite his initial annoyance, Murdoc wishes Noodle was still there to fill in the gap. He and Hannibal only had so much in common as youngsters with a seven year divide, what could they possibly share now? He barely knew the person Russel had invited in, who is he now that they’re alone? Is the temperamental son of a bitch that held him upside-down by his ankles for laughs still in there?
No matter how hard Murdoc tries to hide what he’s thinking, his face always gives it away.
“I know, I wouldn’t trust me either,” Hannibal says.
“You got that right. Lot of nerve to show up now after all the shit you put me through,” Murdoc says, his lip curled. “If you think that’ll all just go away because you flatter me and act all sheepish around my bandmates, you’re bloody wrong. I don’t care what cocktail of drugs they put you on to make you more agreeable. I wouldn’t trust you to hold on to my car keys.”
“The prescription definitely does a proper job of keeping me a level head. But I get it. And I feel bad about ‘treatin you the way I did. I’ve had a lot of time to stew in it. I think I resented that dad seemed to like you better.”
“Did he!” Murdoc says, his voice pitching with sarcasm. “He had a lovely way of showing it, didn’t he? Lovely, lovely old dad!”
“He at least saw a spark of talent in you. He just thought I was a lazy sod, taking up space in his house. When he wasn’t ‘tellin me how worthless I was, he wanted ‘nothin to do with me. I resented the attention he gave you.” Hannibal’s tone remains level, but melancholic. Murdoc doesn’t share the feeling.
“Are you talking about those manky talent competitions?” He hisses. “Exploiting me for two pounds-fifty and a little power trip? Not to mention the other shit that came from it, the humiliation, the seedy slag ‘waitin tab...” Murdoc clams up like the end of the statement is too difficult to summon. He drops the thought and continues. “You think that’s preferable? Well why didn’t you just say so! I would have gladly let you take my place if you wanted it so bad that you’d duff me up for it!”
“He put us both through hell, I know. And it was bad enough for you to get shit from him. You didn’t deserve to get it from me too. Especially not when you just wanted me to pay attention to you,” Hannibal says.
“I didn’t just want attention! I wanted my brother to protect me! No one else ever did!” Murdoc releases the tension in his fists, embarrassed as he remembers his bandmates might hear.
Hannibal nods solemnly. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“At least you taught me early on to rely on myself,” Murdoc crosses his arms. “I’d be a real sorry case if I went through life clinging to other people.” He quickly turns his head to the doorway, thinking he heard someone coming. When he discovers it’s still empty, he turns back to Hannibal. “I got where I am because I didn’t wait for some other bell end to help me.”
Years ago, Murdoc could have expected Hannibal’s fist to locomotive itself directly into the bridge of his bent nose before he could sputter “bell end,” but that doesn’t happen now. Instead, Hannibal sits there, remaining solemn. Murdoc wants to knock that sympathetic look off his face.
“Well, I’m glad you have your band,” Hannibal finally says. “They seem like they care about you. I didn’t know if, what’s his name, big guy, was gonna let me in when I told him who I was.”
“Hell does that mean, ‘seem like they care about me?’” Murdoc says.
“I mean, I’m glad you have people you can turn to. You deserved to have that as a kid and didn’t get it. So it’s good to see you have that now.” Hannibal says, offering another half-smile. “And that you got your own ankle-biter to pester you.”
Murdoc scrunches his face. “2D?”
“Noodle,” Hannibal says. He wrings his hands. “I’ll admit, I spent most of my life on my own because I was afraid that I’d just treat people like dad. I didn’t think I could break that cycle.”
Murdoc stares at him, his anger sinking into that sickening sympathy, then guilt. “I didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
“Break the cycle. Just because I’m sitting where I am now doesn’t mean I became the bigger person.”
Years ago, Murdoc would never let someone who’s as much of a stranger as Hannibal crack him open like this. He wouldn’t even admit things to himself, let alone another person. But he’s been unzipped for a while. Disgustingly vulnerable as of late. Once he opens himself a little, it all comes spilling out in a messy goop at someone’s feet, no matter how much he wants to gather it back up and stuff it out of sight. Those gushy members of his stupid band had done this to him, and now he’s letting his rancid, estranged brother open him up. The old Murdoc would spit at the sight. And thus he continues. “Growing up I knew I’d become him and I let it happen. It seemed inevitable, and it’s easier to be an arsehole and let everyone else deal with it. And that’s what I did. What else could you expect to spring from his terrible loins but equally terrible, no-good, sack of shit arseholes like us?” Murdoc pauses. “When’d you last hear from the old bastard?”
“He always told me I was going to be nothing more than a useless freeloader, and I proved him right. I never left Stoke. Guess I landed in jail so often just to get away from him for a bit. Had to deal with him until the day he died. After that, I robbed a pound shop for five quid just to get a place to stay.” Hannibal explains. “Could you imagine that?”
“When was that?”
“Er, 2009, I believe.”
Murdoc can’t tell if he’s falling backwards or not. He feels himself being swallowed by a merciless ocean, frigid and full of terrible creatures yet so empty. Has his mouth been so dry and salty this whole time? Where is everybody? The water is crushing his lungs. His hands fumble around with a mind of their own, just trying to find something to hold onto. As his hand clasps around a mug on the table, he’s reached the surface. There is no ocean. Only Hannibal staring back at him. Hannibal’s face doesn’t reflect that anything bad has happened.
“I know, hard to believe he kept kicking for so long with the way he treated his liver. Maybe it’s a good sign for us. I mean, we’ve made it this far.” Hannibal raps his knuckles against the table.
So what? Murdoc has known his father would be dead by now; the news doesn’t come as a shock. It’s not like he ever got pangs of nostalgia for his company. It never mattered to him whether the bastard was alive or not. Sebastian Jacob Niccals always lived as a wretched chapter of the past. Had the timing not been so instrumental, his death would be a pebble plunked into the Atlantic. 2009. For a moment, Murdoc wonders if somehow, his father’s rancid spirit, as it puttered out in his final breath, had found its way back to Murdoc and possessed him. No. Even he can’t shift the blame for what happened onto his dead father. That was all his own doing. But what does he feel so sorry for? He wouldn’t have gone to any funeral for him even if he wasn’t on some floating island in the middle of nowhere at the time. Yet it stings. It stings knowing he had been too wrapped up in his own egotistical inferno to, what, mourn? Celebrate? 2009. What a wretched year.
“Hey, Murdoc, you alright?” Hannibal asks. Murdoc blinks his brother back into focus. “You got this thousand-yard stare.”
“I’m sorry,” Murdoc says, trying to tether his mind back to his body. “You had to deal with it by yourself. And I was AWOL. If anything was gonna bring us together, it should have been that. Sorry it took so long.”
“Course, it was a right mess at first. But, as fucked up as it sounds on the surface, it finally set me free. When all you have is yourself, you gotta figure out how to make peace. You slowly make things right. Better late than never.”
Murdoc wonders if that’s a one-size-fits-all truism. He also wonders what this sentimental imposter did with his brother. Is it contagious? “Glad you’ve turned yourself around. Put your right foot in. That’s what it’s all about. Don’t think I have the strength to get over my hokey-pokey addiction. Haw-haw-haw .”
“ Booooooo! ” Noodle interjects from behind Murdoc, startling him. She jabs a thumbs-down at the floor. “Get off the staaaage!”
“What are you doing back here? Go play in the traffic, diablito, ” Murdoc says, swatting her.
“Do you see what a beast he is, Uncle Hannibal?”
“Don’t call him that, he’s not the real Hannibal, he’s been replaced with some guy trying to spout some sage-wisdom at me.”
Noodle plucks an aging banana from a bowl on the table, bonks Murdoc’s mop-head with it, and leaves them alone once again.
“Shall we do this again in another thirty years or so?” Hannibal says, finishing off his tea.
“Mate, you’re giving us a generous estimate on our expiration dates. Let’s shoot for some time sooner than that.”
“Right. Twenty it is, then,” Hannibal says. With that, they shake on it, clasping rough hands, blisters to blisters, a calloused blood pact.
Russel gives a polite nod and a wave as Murdoc leads Hannibal to the door. Noodle waves with her whole arm, accompanied with a peppy “nice meeting you.” 2D looks up from the game once more.
“Oh, goodbye!”
The Niccals men face each other from either side of the foyer, in an awkward “should we hug?” shuffle. Murdoc clears his throat and presses a slip of torn paper into Hannibal’s hand.
“Here, so you can call next time instead of showing up unannounced,” Murdoc says. He hands him a second piece of paper. “And my autograph, so you can pawn it off if you ever need to.”
Hannibal smiles, lands a rough, but playful punch on Murdoc’s arm. “Take care of yourself, pipsqueak. Or else.”
“You as well. You tosser.” Murdoc says, returning a slightly rougher punch. “I’ll be checking my hubcaps when you’re gone.”
“You should.”
“Now get off my doorstep.”
“Your doorstep’s mucking up my shoes,” Hannibal says over his shoulder as he walks off. Murdoc waves.
“Pleasure seeing you, you filthy animal.”
Distant, Hannibal calls back “Displeasure’s all mine, shithead.”
When he’s out of sight, Murdoc closes the door. Before his band mates can ask anything of him, he whisks himself away to the solace of his Winnebago. No one questions him. They understand by now. Once he takes some time to scoop up everything that’s spilled out and zip it back up, tucked away for another day, he’ll be right as rain. He has some recovering to do that he didn’t expect today—but better late than never.