Telltale ~ Liam Gallagher

August 2001

What do you want me to say?

That Liam left that soap 'star' and we ran off together (well, that I hobbled) into the sunset?

No. That's not what happened, and part of me is relieved it didn't.

Instead I'm left lying on my sofa every day with my bad leg propped up on more pillows than I can be arsed to count and sipping cammomile tea to prevent me from ripping apart my own skull in frustration. I'm bored.

He pops round once in a while with groceries and basic chatter. He never mentions her though which strikes me as quite odd considering they've now been together for a few months.

"So there I was," Liam sits down in the arm chair across the room, "basketball in hand. And R'Kid is shoutin' all this shit at me, proper cocky and that." He pauses his story to have a sip of his tea which by now has gone cold after all of the lengthy tales he has been inflicting on me. "Sayin' 'Our Liam ain't got a chance love. That fucker isn't talented at nothing' and I'm thinkin' 'I'll fuckin' show that wanker.'"

I can't help but smirk at his emotion when telling these stories of brotherly feuds. Anyone might think he was proud of the rift slowly prising him and Noel apart.

"And then bam! What do I go and do? I only go and fuckin' score! R'Kid's face was a fuckin' card!'

He looks incredibly smug and suddenly I can see why he's a hard person to make friends with; he's your classic arrogant Mancunian. Honestly, if Noel dared him to stick his head in an oven he would probably do it.

Instead of offering a false congratulations I jump into my first question, "How's your woman then?"

Liam stiffens up in his chair, knuckles turning pale. "She's not my woman," he argues cooly, "You can't own a person."

"I'm sure there are many white supremacists who would care to disagree..."

Liam sighs out of agitation and laziness. "I can't be arsed to argue with you Penny-"

"I wasn't looking for an argument," I begin, feeling quite guilty out of the blue; Liam (despite his many flaws) has really gone out of his way to look after me this last month even though he hasn't needed to. It's not his job. However, despite my pessimistic attitude and constant sarcasm he has still kept coming back with barrels full of soup and cider (not a great combination) and a lot of stories. "I was just interested." I smile apologetically which he accepts to my relief.

In one swift movement he is up from his chair and washing up the mugs in the sink whilst talking about his current bird. "We're okay. We were better before all this." He says, gesturing towards my flat with soap smothered hands. "She doesn't like me comin' to see you."

"I can't blame her."

He stays quiet and I watch whilst he washes up everything I've left in the sink for the last few days. He always says it's second nature, washing up. That ever since he was a lad it was just expected, that if something needed doing you just did it. I suppose that hasn't been leached out of him yet.

And then he stops.

Standing still with his tanned hands submerged in the soapy water.

"What is this Penny?'

I feel my blood turn icy cold in my veins.

"What are we doin' here? What has this been from the start? My notes, the flirtin' and now this?"

His voice sounds vulnerable, like an anxious teen being left to babysit for the first time; you think you should feel excited at the sudden gain of responsibility but then reality hits, the possible dangers, risks, potential horrific outcomes. The excitement fades and is replaced by sheer anxiety.

I hobble up from the sofa and grab my crutches.

"It's nothing Liam. We don't need to label whatever this... car crash is." I begin to dry up the cutlery with a ratty tea towel.

"But if we were to, I don't know, put a label on it, what exactly would the label be?"

I pause and furrow my brow in concentration. Nope, no ideas.

"Friends?" I suggest awkwardly causing Liam to scoff.

"When have we ever liked each other's personalities Penny." More of a statement than a question which pangs at me a little. But I know he's right.

"True. You have a point."

He rinses off his hands in the water and pulls out the plughole - our tense silence being broken by the obnoxious sound of liquid being sucked down into the pipes.

"So we're just attracted to each other then? Physically?" I blurt out without really thinking it through first - but that's exactly what we are, physically attracted to each other. It doesn't go any deeper than that.

He pauses and shuffles on his feet, a habit he has had ever since I met him. "Yeah. I guess that's what it is." He sighs with agitation, taking the towel from my hands and finishing off the drying up.

I let him and watch. Watching his hands manoeuvre around the plates and forks, polishing the silver as he does so. He's got nice hands; surprising for a musician who would be expected to have hands covered in hard calluses, but not Liam. Completely smooth and well-kept. The upside to being a lazy sod who refuses to learn the guitar.

"Stop watchin' me Penny," he mumbles, "you're putting me off." It's a half-hearted sentence. No real truth. And before long the soap smothered tea towel has been abandoned on the kitchen tiles, his hands are running through my hair and I'm left thinking, that maybe we're not just friends anymore.