Born Free

by Laura Hird

She stumbles past me to her room and slams the door. I stand outside, listening to her banging around, trying to get undressed. Waiting till I hear her getting into bed, I go in to check on her.

  ‘Feeling any better? Look, dinnae lie on your back in case you’re sick again. I don’t want you doing a Jimi Hendrix on me.’

  She grunts onto her side and I start to leave.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Uh huh?’

  ‘Nah, nothing.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m trying to get to sleep.’

  As I close the door, I hear the bed squeak as she turns onto her back again. I have to fill a basin via the kettle and a few saucepans to clean the motor out. I used all the hot water earlier, bloody waste, having my biannual bath, to sit and drink beer on my own. By the time I got round to phoning Ronnie, he’d arranged to go out and play pool. He said he’d phone me back so I could join them, but didn’t bother his arse. Also, when I phoned up about tickets for the football, I found out it’s an away game. I’ve not had the balls to tell Dad or Jake yet. How come everything I touch turns to shit?

  It takes 40 minutes, and three jaunts upstairs for fresh water, to eradicate the smell of cheesy, garlic alcohol from the car. It’s in between the seats, down the doors, everywhere. I bet it was deliberate.

  When I finally get back in, I get a crushing band of pain across my chest, as I stick the three stinky towels I’ve been using on a quick-wash. Sod the neighbours. I’m not explaining it all to Ange in the morning.

  When I check Joni again, she’s asleep. As I roll her onto her side, she grunts, but doesn’t wake up, thank God. Angie is snoring through the wall. Fantastic, just fantastic. Jan pees on the hall carpet as I get the duvet out the cupboard. I hum ‘Perfect Day’ to myself as I go through to the settee.

  Chapter Eleven

  JAKE

  I’M ABOUT TO go through for Live and Kicking when I hear Mum shouting. God, she’s started early this morning. This’ll be the week for sure that Zoe Ball gets her kit off in the first five minutes. Zoe is a babe. I listen to her radio show under the duvet every morning, before I get up, and pretend she’s under there with me. It’s quite a challenge trying to come in between the records.

  The front door slams at ten past nine, so I brave it through to the colour telly. Dad’s sitting with a tube of Superglue and his Arthur Scargill Toby jug, which is in several pieces. It is, was, his pride and joy because some old Commie gave him it during the miners’ strike. Dad thinks the miners’ strike was the most significant thing that ever happened in the history of mankind. It sounded pretty stupid to me. The miners went on strike, so they closed down all the mines. What’s so great about that? They must have hated being miners. If all the kids went on strike, would they close down the schools? Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing.

  ‘Mum’s gone to her pal’s for a couple of days. I made her a coffee. It seemed to antagonise her,’ he mutters, trying to work out what way up the dismembered jug handle goes. I wish he’d piss off and leave me with Zoe. She’s wearing a really tight top that shows off her tits in a way that shouldn’t be allowed on children’s TV. Why couldn’t Dad’ve married someone like her? Imagine that tucking you in at night.

  He goes to make breakfast but his timing is awful and I’m left watching a stupid cartoon with a stiffie. By the time Zoe comes back on, he’s back through with two bacon rolls and a glass of Ribena. Sitting back down with his ugly Arthur mug, he stares at my nose.

  ‘What happened to you? You look like W. C. Fields.’

  Shit, I forgot to check my face when I got up.

  ‘Eh, oh nothing. I got hit by a football.’

  He looks hurt and surprised.

  ‘Football? What about my five-a-side?’

  ‘Nah, not playing, I was walking through the park. Anyway, what happened with Jo last night? What did she do?’

  ‘Apart from spewing all over the car, I’m not at all sure.’

  ‘Was she drunk?’

  ‘From the evidence I’ve gathered so far, my professional opinion would be, yes, she was guttered.’

  ‘Is that why Mum was shouting?’

  He pulls a strange face. I check the front of my jammies, then he lets out an ‘oof ’ noise and grabs his chest. This doesn’t alarm me. Dad does it all the time. He’s always imagining there’s stuff wrong with him – cancer, brain tumours. Heart attack is his current favourite, since Father Ted died. Dad loved Father Ted and cried when it said on the news he was dead. For days, all he could say was, ‘Forty-five … God … only forty-five,’ as if that was young or something. If you just ignore him, he tends to forget about it after a few minutes. I ignore him.

  ‘I’ve buggered up on the football I’m afraid. It’s at Parkhead. I don’t know what I was thinking.’

  Wasn’t that the whole point? A day in Glasgow at a massive big stadium? Who wants to go to poxy Tynecastle? They’ve maybe got the new stand, but you can still see Gorgie outside, it spoils it. He’s really apologetic and gets another pain in his chest. It’s starting to bug me, so I take my Ribena and go through to annoy Jo.

  Taking a run across the room, I launch myself onto her bed, then, brilliantly, manage to squeeze out a really loud, smelly fart. Chucking me onto the floor, she’s immediately on top of me, slapping me round my sore head.

  ‘Bastard, bastard, dirty little bastard.’

  Dad comes in, shakes his head and says, ‘Jake, stop bothering your sister, or she’ll stab you,’ then shuts the door again.

  Jo grabs me by the throat.

  ‘I will as well, you clarty little shit. Stop acting like a fucking five-year-old.’

  Wrestling free, I cower over to her swivel chair.

  ‘… you better not fart again, I’m warning you.’

  I spin round and round.

  ‘So what happened last night? Dad said you spewed in the car. Were you on eckies or summat?’

  ‘You’re too immature to discuss it with,’ she says smugly, getting back into bed.

  ‘Aw, c’mon Jo, tellies. I winnae say anything.’

  ‘Use your imagination. You’re good at that.’

  I go over and jump on the bed again. Her face turns greyish- green and she runs out the room, with sick bubbling between her fingers. The toilet door slamming is followed by long, loud puking sounds that make me feel sick as well. When she comes out ten minutes later, she looks like something that’s been dead for a week.

  ‘I was just bringing up bile.’

  ‘Cheers, Jo. I really wanted to know that.’

  Dad appears with a glass of fizzing somethingness, fussing over her. She grabs it off him without even saying thanks and goes back to bed. I decide to play the computer. Dad follows me through. I play Solitaire to illustrate just how desperate my current computer game situation is.

  ‘D’you still want to come and see Granda with me? We could go for a run. Stop off and have a fish supper.’

  Whoopee! I didn’t want to see Granda, I wanted to go to Parkhead. Granda’s a wimp, like Dad. It’s depressing being with them,’ cause it makes me think I’m going to end up like that, too.

  ‘Nah, Dad. It’s OK.’

  ‘Aw c’mon. We could maybe stop into PC World on the way back.’

  ‘Mmh, well, I suppose it has been a while since I’ve seen him.’

  Bollocks, I’ll have to go now. He’s gone all shiny and happy. At least I’ll get my Fifa 98.

  I go to clean my teeth and check out my horrible purple nose and the graze on my cheek. If it was just the cheek, it would look all right, quite hard, but the nose makes me look like something out an Askit commercial. Jo better not start going about with that bastarding Daniel although, hopefully if she does he’ll beat her up too.

  The car’s absolutely minging. I refuse to get in until Dad does something to get rid of the stink. He gives it the once-over with a bottle of aftershave, but then it smells like Mr Russell and it’s almost worse. Even the dog looks offended as we force h
er into the back seat. Once she’s found a stray bit sick to lick, though, she’s fine. I try to lose myself in my Game Boy, to take my mind off it but Dad’s so pleased we’re out together he won’t stop talking.

  ‘Jake, will you answer me something honestly. You won’t get into trouble.’

  Oh, here we go.

  ‘Mmh?’

  ‘You know, at school, has anyone ever offered you or Joni drugs? Like, if you wanted to get drugs at school, would you know who to ask?’

  ‘Why, what are you after? Speed? Eckies? You’d have to ask the headmaster about that. He does Class As.’

  The radge looks like he actually believes me. I can’t stop myself laughing.

  ‘It’s not funny, Jake. Y’know what I mean. D’you know anyone that takes drugs? Does Joni?’

  ‘Mr Russell, the gym teacher, he’s on crack. So are a few of the relief teachers, but they only let you try it if you take biology.’

  We stop at the lights and he gets all intense.

  ‘Look, Jake, has Joni ever said anything to you about drugs?’

  ‘What are you asking me for? She’s the one that puked everywhere. Ask her.’

  ‘And she’d tell me the truth? C’mon, she’ll batter me if I ask her.’

  ‘Ditto.’

  The lights turn green and we drive past McDonald’s. There’s a brief silence, very brief.

  ‘Seriously though, Jake. Has Joni said anything to you whatsoever about drugs?’

  ‘Aw, Dad, if you’re gonna keep going on about it, I’m going home.’

  This finally shuts him up. What’s he on about anyway? As if he never took drugs in the 70s. And look what Mum used to be like. It’s all so centred round him worrying about Joni as well. It makes me want to go out and do a River Phoenix.

  Granda’s at the end of his path, waiting, when we turn into the street. He goes back in the house when he sees the car.

  ‘Bugger, he’s got his Hearts scarf on and everything. I haven’t told him about the match yet, shit.’

  We go through the open front door, to the back of the house where Granda is standing, looking out the window. He pretends to get a big surprise when Dad says hello and Jan sticks her nose up his arse. Poor bastard, he’s done up like he’s going for his knighthood. He always looks really, really smart, even though he just sits round the house on his own. Today, seriously, for the football, he’s got on a grey suit, white shirt with matching hankie, silk tie and camel overcoat. This with a manky Hearts scarf. Giving me a yucky big cuddle, he tells me how grown-up I’m looking. He doesn’t seem to notice my purple nose, but he’s half blind anyway. Then he starts fussing around, digging things out, trying to give me things – old Hearts programmes from the 60s and 70s, a pile of computer magazines I’ve already got that he picked up for me in a second-hand shop, a big bag of mini Mars bars, a tenner. Dad has to tell him to stop eventually, says it’s embarrassing. Speak for yourself, I think, with my arms full of booty.

  When Dad explains about the football, he just smiles and slides his scarf off.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, that’s fine. A drive with my two favourite people’ll be just smashing.’

  God, why do people do that all the time? Pretend to be happy when they’re sad? How has the human race got this far when everyone says the exact opposite of what they mean?

  Granda screws up his face when we get in the car.

  ‘That’s rather an unusual aroma, son. Is there a dead homosexual in the boot?’

  Dad laughs at his attempted joke. So do I. It’s a shame for the old codger.

  ‘Jo got a bit carsick. Sorry, does it smell really bad?’

  This is the understatement of the year but Granda just grins and opens the window. Dad puts on a rubbishy rock-and-roll tape and gets Granda to guess who all the groups are. I only know a couple of them, from films, but Granda should be on University Challenge, honestly. He knows who’s singing each one, the year, who sang the original. It’s just a pity the bands are all dross. It’s so obvious why there’s been a revival of everything except rock-and-roll. It’s fucking gash.

  We don’t seem to actually be going anywhere. Dad’s just going round in circles, pointing out all these new buildings and saying how wonderful the crappy old shops and car parks that used to be there were. I think they look great myself, really modern and Bladerunnerish. After an hour of it though, I’m bored shitless.

  The awful bop-shoo-wop tape finally finishes, thank fuck. Then dad leans over and sticks in something even worse – the tape he used to play in the car when we were wee. It was OK when I was five, but it just makes me cringe now. What if the polis pull us over when we’re listening to ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’? They’ll think we’re on a day trip from the Royal Ed. Dad sings along to the first verse, but gets so many words wrong he gives up while he still has his dignity. Granda’s lapping it up, but he’s just a big bairn anyway.

  Next up is ‘Calling Occupants …’ I used to crease myself every time they sang ‘Interplanetary crapped’. The singer gave me the creeps though. She looked like she’d actually come off a spaceship.

  Dad wants to show us where the new Parliament’s going to be but I’m getting sick of his shitey guided tour and start complaining. We make a detour towards Portobello instead. That really awful ‘Superman’ song by Black Lace comes on. I make Dad fast-forward it. Joni and me used to do our own stupid wee dance to it when we were bairns. Dad made us do it in front of the whole family, three Christmases in a row. No wonder Auntie Jean doesn’t speak to us any more.

  Oh, fuck, it gets worse. Next up’s ‘Born Free’. As we drive along the seafront to Eastfield, Dad and Granda start singing their lungs out, really giving it laldy. Dad knows all the words to this one, and wants everyone to know it. It’s like the sort of music they play in shopping centres. My God, he’s even singing the bits where it’s just the orchestra. It’s a shame, really. He’s about as free as a goldfish.

  ‘Mind you took me to see the film when I was six? I wanted to be a vet for years after,’ Dad says to Granda. What a memory he’s got.

  ‘Aye, till you tried to practise on Mrs McKenzie’s cat and it clawed you in the face, mind? I’m sure it didn’t even need an appendectomy,’ giggles Granda.

  Dad parks the car next to the toilets and we get Jan out the back. Exhausted by the journey, she collapses in a heap and we have to drag her along the prom. Once she’s sniffed a few shites and found a used condom to chew, though, she seems to get her bearings. There’s a cold wind blowing across the sand but the place is completely deserted, which is the way I like it. I’m still wondering what could possibly have been going through Dad’s mind when he was singing that song. It’s probably easier to be born free when you live on a massive nature reserve in the middle of Africa and have lions for pets. Maybe Dad tortured small animals because he resented not having that. How did he end up so boring?

  When we get along to the arcade, Granda empties his pockets and gives me about four pounds in loose change. Dad takes Jan back along to get the car. I’m straight over to the clay-pigeon-shooting machine. The graphics are crap, but you get to hold a real gun and it feels really heavy and sexy. What did they have to ban guns for, just when I was nearly old enough to own one?

  Eeeeeeh, bang, eeeeeh, bang, eeeeeh, bang, shit, missed them all.

  I’d like to take a gun to school and waste anyone that tried to give me a hard time. Why couldn’t that Thomas Hamilton guy have come to our gym when Mr Russell was taking Shug’s class? Imagining the next three lights are Mr Russell, Shug and Daniel, I only manage to hit Daniel. Granda gets behind me and tries to show me how to hold the gun properly. I hate when people touch me but I have to let him, because he’s old. Doing it how he tells me just makes me even crapper and I miss about 15 in a row. Granda puts in another pound, takes the gun off me, and has a go.

  Eeeeeh, bang, eeeeh, bang, eeeeh, bang. Bastard gets them all first time, then the second time, and the third. I cheer and pretend to be pleased for hi
m but inside I’m pissed off. He shouldn’t even be having a shot. It’s supposed to be for kids. He offers to pay for me to have another go, but I don’t want to now. I’ll just look crap.

  Leaving him with his gun, I go over to the fruit machines. I get five holds in a row, but don’t know what to do with them, so win nothing. Granda’s over at my side again, pumping coins into a two-pence machine. Almost immediately it starts chugging out money. For fuck’s sake.

  ‘I should come here more often.’

  ‘It’s only two-pence pieces,’ I say sarcastically. I just want to go home. This is so fucking tedious.

  Sticking my last pound in a simulated driving game, I crash on the first corner. Not wanting to watch Granda win the arcade pentathlon, though, I just stay there, staring at the Game Over sign.

  By the time Dad comes back, Granda’s having a coffee in the arcade café, chatting up the tea lady. You can tell he doesn’t get out much. He never even asked if I wanted something to eat.

  I tell Dad I want to go home. He looks all hurt, but I’ve been humouring them both for bloody hours now. Why did I agree to this? I want to go and see if that Sean’s in, and get a shot on the Internet.

  ‘Dad, we better get going if we want to get to PC World.’

  He puts his hand up to his face. ‘Oh, shit, I forgot all about it. D’you mind if we give it a miss today? I think Granda’s a bit puggled.’

  Great, absolutely fucking marvellous. I’ve been cheated out of a whole non-school day of my life for nothing. I could have been surfing the Net. I could have been Rangers against AC Milan, 45 minutes each half, and beat them 100–0 three times, by now. But instead I’ve spent a whole day looking at poxy buildings and having to listen to these two old farts. Lying bastard. I hope I die before I’m 16, I never want to end up selfish like that.

  Chapter Twelve

  ANGIE

  IT’S QUARTER TO six. This time yesterday, it was all about to begin. Caroline, my friend on community care, is sitting opposite me. We went out for lunch, then a couple of drinks, but, now we’re back at hers, the conversation has dried up. The last three times she was sectioned, I never visited. Her last two overdoses, she phoned and asked me to help her do it properly, but I didn’t. When she was being bullied in the women’s refuge and asked me out for a drink to get it off her chest, I pretended I was going on holiday. But this is important, this is about me. So I phoned her up despite all that and said, ‘Caroline, sorry I’ve not been in touch. Why don’t I come round for the weekend and make it up to you? Howya doing anyway?’