Not Bad People

by Brandy Scott

  Lou turned. ‘Could you ask them —’

  ‘Hey!’ Aimee said, pointing. ‘Look!’

  There was a flare of light in the distance, a yellow dot that grew steadily brighter.

  ‘One of the lanterns must have caught fire,’ said Aimee.

  Lou squinted, trying to bring her pinot vision into focus. The glowing dot didn’t look like a lantern on fire, but to be fair she was nearly a bottle down.

  Melinda shrugged. ‘Don’t worry, it’s just paper. It’ll burn out in a minute.’

  But it didn’t. Instead, the small circle expanded as it rose steadily upwards, then popped — that was the only word for it — into a cartoon ball of fire, yellow and orange and white.

  Aimee turned to Melinda. ‘Quick, give me your phone.’

  ‘No,’ said Melinda, holding it out of reach.

  Aimee stared at her. ‘But we have to call it in.’

  ‘No,’ Melinda said again. ‘You’ll just cause a world of hassle.’

  ‘But what if it sets fire to something?’

  ‘Aimee, it won’t.’ Melinda’s voice was firm. ‘There’s nothing up there for it to set fire to.’

  Lou cupped her hands around her eyes. The little flame was floating above the ranges, like an angry star.

  ‘The fire danger’s been low for ages,’ Melinda said. ‘People are literally barbecuing in the streets. You don’t need to worry.’

  The fireball was breaking up now, falling towards the earth in a shower of sparks. It was too far away to see where, exactly; too far and too dark. Lou tried to figure out the right thing to do.

  A third round of fireworks exploded, then a fourth. ‘Look, everyone’s staring at the sky; someone else will spot it,’ said Melinda. A fifth explosion, and a golden constellation fizzed above the river. Then, in the distance, the familiar wail of an emergency vehicle, followed by the whoop of a police siren. ‘See? Sorted. And it’s gone out anyway.’

  Lou gazed over to where the glowing ball had been. Like a magic trick, the small blaze had disappeared. Thank God for that. Lou didn’t like trouble; she’d seen enough for one lifetime. ‘Let’s go inside,’ she said.

  CHAPTER 2

  Pete lay in a cradle of twisted metal, pain racing from one limb to another. His shoulder looked wrong somehow, and his arm had split open like a sausage; he could see white fat and bone beneath the blood, but never mind that, he needed to get out of the plane before the whole thing exploded. He felt for his seat buckle with the other hand and found fingers, warm and sticky. Lincoln. Pete’s brain came rushing back to life as he remembered that he wasn’t alone, Lincoln was with him. The whole flight had been Lincoln’s idea and therefore Lincoln would be trapped in the Cessna as well, with the world bursting fire all around them. The flashes came from both above and below — some from the engine, gently burning, others from the night sky as though the heavens were sending up distress signals on their behalf.

  ‘Lincoln,’ he whispered, for some reason unable to shout. ‘Lincoln!’ There was no answer. Pete reached painfully towards his son and snapped him free, then tried to manoeuvre Lincoln’s gangly teenage limbs up and out the sparkling hole that was now the windscreen. The ground tilted dizzily towards him as the little plane swung with their weight.

  He tugged at his son as hard as he dared, careful to support the neck, worried that something was broken, that he’d do more harm than good, but more worried about an explosion, with the flames, the fuel. The fuselage was blistering hot as he finally dragged them both up and over and then thumping onto the ground, Pete cushioning the blow as Lincoln landed on top of him. There was a quick series of pops and he felt his ribs go, his whole torso ignite with pain, but he ignored it as he dragged them both backwards, agonisingly slow against the packed earth — where had they even landed? A farm? — towards what he had no idea, but away from the smell of fuel.

  One metre, two metres. Pete pulled them across the ground, like swimming backstroke almost, pushing with his hips, his feet, one arm, whispering to his son, ‘Come on, Lincoln, hang in there, mate, take it easy.’ Three metres, four — a major achievement given the fact each breath was like a knife — but not far enough. There was an earsplitting explosion, close enough to singe the ends of his hair, but instead of the world going red, it all went black.

  CHAPTER 3

  ‘Did you have a good time?’ Aimee tried to keep her voice casual, to sound almost uninterested in her son’s answer as she watched him dump his cereal bowl in the sink and tried to read his body language.

  ‘It was all right. S’pose.’

  ‘Just all right?’ Aimee peered at his eyes to figure out if he was hung over or simply tired. Or, worse, had been smoking something. Lou had horrified her in the car on the way home with stories of what Tansy and her friends were taking — pills of all sorts, crushing up other children’s ADHD medication and snorting it, Lou had admitted.

  ‘It was fine.’ Her son shrugged as he sprayed water into the sink, rinsing off his bowl as well as the surrounding workbench and floor.

  ‘Byron —’

  ‘S’all right. I’ve got it.’ He grabbed a tea towel and made a few ineffectual swipes at the bench, sending a stream of water flooding towards the bank of ancient kitchen appliances lined up under the window. The edge of the towel caught a pot of basil; it toppled into the sink. ‘Ah shit.’

  Don’t tell him off, Aimee, you’ll only make him uncomfortable. Byron had grown nearly five centimetres in the few months since his birthday, and acquired a pair of hands that seemed far too big for him. They were man’s hands, Aimee observed, as she took the tea towel from him and mopped up the deluge, righted the plant. Grown-up hands. They seemed all wrong on her fifteen-year-old boy, the boy who now towered over her, liked to pat her on the head. The boy who seemed to have a grown-up social life as well, with friends she didn’t know and activities she wasn’t privy to. Grown-up activities, possibly. And how did she feel about that?

  She tried once more. ‘So who was there?’

  Byron gave a sigh. ‘People, Mum,’ he said. ‘There were people there.’

  ‘I’m only asking.’

  ‘It was just another boring night in Hensley. Same people, same conversation. Just with added fireworks.’ He sighed again. ‘We live in fucking Riverdale, Mum. You’ve known everyone I hang out with since I was four years old.’

  ‘Don’t swear at your mother.’ Nick’s voice, from the doorway, was mild, but Byron stopped slouching immediately, pulling his shoulders back and gaining another inch Aimee wasn’t aware he possessed.

  ‘Sorry.’ Byron grabbed his backpack, shoving a small box from his pocket — cigarettes? condoms? — into its murky depths and zipping the bag up before Aimee could get a proper look. He smiled at her, sudden sunshine from behind indifferent clouds. ‘Hey, can I take the car? Just to go down to Murt’s? Please?’

  The car. Damn. ‘Absolutely not, Byron, you don’t have your licence.’ He started to protest, and Aimee held up a hand. ‘You know the score. Anyway, I left it at Melinda’s.’

  ‘Bugger.’ The clouds — and the slouch — returned.

  ‘Byron.’

  ‘Bugger isn’t a swear word.’

  ‘Just don’t, all right, mate?’ Nick ruffled his son’s hair as they passed each other in the doorway. ‘And be back for dinner.’

  ‘K.’

  And he was gone, leaving Aimee no wiser or calmer about the previous evening’s activities.

  ‘You need to talk to him,’ Aimee told Nick as he collapsed into the nearest sofa, six foot three inches of sweat-stained T-shirt and faded rugby shorts. She could see the circles around his ankles where his boots had rubbed the hair away, the line of farmer’s tan across his biceps as he reached for a pillow.

  ‘Byron? He’s okay. He’s just at that stage where speaking to us is exhausting, and unnecessary.’

  ‘No, you need to talk to him.’ Aimee gave her husband a meaningful look.

  ‘What, about sex?’ N
ick laughed. ‘I think he knows how it all happens. We had that chat years ago.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s different now.’ Aimee perched on the edge of a faded armchair, a hand-me-down from a relative that had been absorbed so thoroughly into their own family history she couldn’t even remember the original donor.

  ‘What, because he’s gay?’

  ‘Nick!’ Aimee shot a look at the door.

  ‘Aims, he told us, remember?’

  ‘Yes, but —’ Aimee felt like someone’s ancient maiden aunt. ‘We can still be sensitive.’

  Nick started inching off his socks. ‘I don’t think he wants us to be sensitive,’ he said. ‘I think he wants us to act like it’s normal. Which it is.’

  ‘I’m not saying . . .’ Aimee closed her eyes. He knew what she meant, dammit. Why did he have to make it difficult? ‘He’s only fifteen. I’d be concerned whoever he was having sex with.’

  ‘Who’s having sex?’ Shelley wandered into the kitchen, followed by their overweight labrador, Lucinda.

  ‘No one,’ said Aimee.

  ‘Your mother thinks your brother is,’ said Nick.

  ‘Nick!’ said Aimee.

  ‘He’s not,’ said Shelley.

  ‘There you go then,’ said Nick.

  ‘He watches a lot of porn, but he hasn’t actually done anything yet,’ said Shelley. ‘Says there’s no one around here to do it with.’

  ‘Shelley!’ said Aimee.

  ‘I’m going to give this dog a bit of a run around,’ said Nick. He smiled at them both, his easy good-guy smile. ‘See, Aims. No need to get your knickers in a twist.’ And he was out the door, Lucinda trotting uncertainly behind him.

  Aimee straightened her ancient bathrobe, twisted her hair into a dark knot on top of her head. She had the Donnelly curls, like Melinda, only Aimee’s were more likely to be a frizzy mass than Melinda’s serumed cascade. Aimee had also managed to inherit the Donnelly arse and hips, still more an L than an M, while Melinda’s bottom half would barely dent an S. Wouldn’t dare. She claimed it was Pilates, but Aimee secretly believed that Melinda’s body was scared of disobeying her, like everyone else.

  She smoothed down the sofa, pissing off the cat. Oscar hissed at her, ears back. ‘Oh bugger off,’ said Aimee. ‘You’re lucky to even be in here.’

  His recent bowel issues meant Oscar was supposed to be confined to the laundry, but the children — and the cat — had protested noisily. Aimee brushed at a smear of dirt Nick had left behind, checking that’s all it was. She could see her husband out the window, lobbing a ball for Lucinda, unconcerned. Maybe he was right. Maybe there was nothing to worry about. Byron was growing up; she had to learn to give him space. Aimee moved into the kitchen and made herself a comforting cup of tea. And it wasn’t like he could get pregnant, or was even in the market to get anyone else pregnant. She should leave it alone. Not question, not pry. Respect his privacy. Aimee sat down at the kitchen table next to Shelley. A dignified silence, that was the thing.

  ‘So how do you know Byron’s not sleeping with anyone?’ she asked her daughter.

  Shelley gave her a look. ‘Really, Mum?’

  Aimee sighed. ‘Well, you can’t throw something like that into the conversation and just leave it hanging.’

  ‘So ask Byron.’ Shelley crunched into a piece of toast.

  ‘I can’t have that kind of conversation with him.’ Aimee smiled winningly, reached over to stroke a smooth forearm. ‘Not like I could with you.’

  ‘Stop smarming, Mum.’

  ‘But I could. You’re my daughter. We have a special bond.’

  ‘There’s nothing for us to have a conversation about. I’m not having sex with anyone either.’

  ‘Well, of course you’re not.’ Shelley was only thirteen, and an easy thirteen at that. Still happily wearing clothes her mother bought her, not a sniff of boyfriends or underage activities. Aimee thought of Lou’s constant battles with Tansy and said a silent prayer of thanks.

  ‘I could be. Other people are.’

  ‘Oh God, don’t joke. You’re my good child. You’re the one I rely on to keep me sane.’ Aimee tried not to guess which of Shelley’s friends were already at it. ‘But Byron — I’m concerned. That’s all.’

  ‘Would you be concerned if he was straight?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘Shelley!’ Aimee set her mug down on the table, hard. ‘Don’t you dare try and make out I’m some kind of . . . bigot. That’s not fair.’

  ‘Then leave him alone.’

  ‘I’ve been nothing but supportive. You know that. I bought him all those books when he first came out.’

  Shelley rolled her eyes.

  ‘And he knows both your father and I are absolutely fine with whatever he does.’

  ‘You just want to know what it is he’s doing.’

  ‘Yes.’ Aimee tucked her hands into the comforting pockets of her towelling robe. ‘As I will with you, when it’s your turn.’

  Shelley stood and walked her plate over to the sink. Rinsed it off, with soap, then dried it and placed it carefully back in the cupboard. ‘He told me, okay?’ she said finally. ‘If it makes you feel better. He was having a moan about his skin. Said he’d probably still be a virgin when he goes to uni at this rate. But don’t you dare say anything or he’ll kill me.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Aimee promised. ‘And . . . the porn? I assume that’s all online.’ They had an unlimited data plan; maybe it was best to change that. If only so he got some homework done.

  Shelley sighed. ‘You okay now?’

  ‘I am.’ She was. ‘Thank you, darling.’ Aimee reached over to give her daughter a grateful hug.

  Shelley pulled a face. ‘You’ve got tea in your moustache,’ she said, sidestepping her mother and heading for the door.

  Aimee wiped her top lip on the sleeve of her bathrobe. There you go. Nothing to worry about. Fingers crossed both her children would remain safely bored and virginal until they went off to university. Aimee got up humming from the kitchen table and made her way to the bench. She’d have a piece of toast herself, maybe even an egg. Scrambled, why not? She cracked two fresh eggs from Shelley’s hens into a bowl and pulled the local paper towards her while she whisked. There was a large picture of an accident on the front page, twisted metal and first responders. Awful. Thank goodness none of them had tried to drive last night.

  Aimee shook out the newspaper so she could read the accompanying story below the fold. She got three paragraphs in before she dropped the whisk. The mixing bowl tipped off the bench, egg splattering all over the tiles, but Aimee barely noticed.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered, eyes glued to the paper as though the words might rearrange themselves if she stared hard enough. ‘Please, no. Oh my God.’

  Lou sat stiffly upright on her parents’ green velour sofa — her sofa now, she reminded herself — and wondered where her daughter was. As no doubt her parents had spent many an evening wondering about Lou. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Although she hadn’t been half as bad as Tansy. Yes, she’d yelled and sworn and slammed doors and all the usual teenage stuff, but she’d never stayed out all night. Or stolen from them. Lou shook her head at the half-empty drinks cabinet. Tansy and her friends hadn’t even bothered to pull its stupid wooden roller door back down. Just left it gaping, all the good stuff gone, and quite a lot of the rubbish as well. Blue Bols. Who even drank Blue Bols? There’d been a bottle of champagne as well, that she was saving for her birthday. What was the point, Lou asked herself. What was the point of buying anything nice when it just ended up getting nicked or lost or ruined? Well, things were going to change. The situation couldn’t continue. It had gone on for long enough.

  The back door creaked open, then was gently shut by someone trying not to make a sound. Lou let the footsteps tiptoe halfway down the hall before calling out.

  ‘In here,’ she said. ‘Now.’

  Tansy looked tired and slightly sheepish. She was
wearing a crumpled red dress Lou didn’t recognise, and a pair of tarty open-toed boots they’d fought over before.

  ‘Really, Tans?’ she said, jerking her head towards the drinks cabinet.

  Tansy went for defiant. ‘We’ll replace it,’ she said. ‘We couldn’t get anything in town. They were checking IDs.’

  ‘You couldn’t get anything because you’re not supposed to be drinking,’ said Lou. ‘You’re not old enough.’

  ‘You always say you’d rather have us here where you know what we’re doing,’ Tansy countered.

  ‘When I’m here,’ said Lou. ‘And I don’t know what you’ve been doing, because you haven’t been home. And because you turned your phone off. So I’ve been sitting here, on this bloody couch, worried out of my bloody mind, for the past nine hours. You’re lucky I didn’t call the police.’

  ‘I didn’t turn my phone off,’ said Tansy. ‘It ran out of battery.’

  ‘BECAUSE YOU WERE OUT ALL BLOODY NIGHT.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Tansy, backing towards the door. ‘Calm down. I stayed at Zarah’s. It’s not a big deal.’

  ‘IT IS A BIG DEAL.’ Lou took a deep breath and tried not to turn into her mother. ‘It is a big deal,’ she said again. ‘You can’t do this. You’re sixteen years old. You will come home and sleep in your own bed, and you will be home when you’re told, and you will not take my stuff, and you will bloody well behave yourself.’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Or you’ll board.’ Lou had already thought this through. ‘And not at St Ursula’s either.’ She’d recently moved Tansy to the private day school in the hope it would keep her on the straight and narrow: clearly not. ‘I’ll send you to Sacred Heart. They can sort you out.’

  ‘But that’s in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘I know,’ said Lou. ‘Great, eh?’

  The look on Tansy’s face was close to hatred. ‘Bitch,’ she said.

  Lou stared at her daughter, scowling in the doorway of Lou’s own childhood home. She had the same dirty-blonde hair as Lou — although Lou’s had a bit of help, these days — the same top-heavy figure. The same habit of standing with her toes inward. It was like having an argument with herself. There was something especially hideous about having this fight in the same room where, for weeks, she’d argued about her own future — and Tansy’s — with her parents. Surrounded by the same stupid Lladro figurines, under the same ugly brass light fittings. Lou and Tansy had moved in nine months earlier, after her parents’ death. She didn’t have the money to redecorate, or even the energy to move the awful china somewhere out of sight — the thought of touching her parents’ things still made her feel slightly odd — but the moment she did she’d rip the whole bloody lot out. She didn’t need any reminders. And yet, she was about to do to Tansy what they’d done to her.