by Laura Hird
‘How d’you think I’m doing?’
I’d have put the phone straight back down again, but who else is there? Where else can I be the person I was three years ago without anyone noticing? Besides, Care in the Community means use me and abuse me, I don’t have anyone left I trust enough to complain to. Perfect.
Lunch wasn’t too bad, with people to look at and other conversations to eavesdrop on. I let Caroline ramble on about all the awful things she’d been trying to tell me over the phone for the past four years. I’d heard most of it before, so I suppose it must be genuine. It’s the only way I can gauge what’s true and what’s imagined with her nowadays. It was an excuse to get wellied into the Chardonnay, if nothing else.
After, I took her to a pub, with the intention of drinking myself stupid enough to get a taxi to work. In the end, I got sick of paying two pound a time for tiny measures and I couldn’t shake Caroline off when it got time to go, so now we’re back at her place with a bottle of vodka.
I’m pouring drinks through in the filthy kitchen because she’s stopped taking her medication, so I don’t want her getting too pissed. Since I made her go halfers, I make sure my drink isn’t three shades lighter than hers or she might get a bit touchy. How come there’s 28 pub measures in a bottle of vodka but when you pour them yourself you only get about six?
When I go back through, she’s put the radio on. Repetitious rave-type music. It sounds really uppy and high but Caroline’s face looks like it should be staring through the fence at Belsen.
‘This programme used to gear me up for Saturday nights. Now it is my fucking Saturday night.’
‘You could still go out. People go to clubs on their own. If you just want to dance …’
‘Oh no no no. Too many bad people out there.’
Why does everything have to be a conspiracy with Caroline? I’d like to tell her about Raymond but she might start using it to try and get me to come and see her more often. Mind you, she doesn’t appear to have the confidence left to do something that decisive, but you can never tell.
Trying to lose myself in the monotonous music, I imagine writhing around on top of Raymond to the constant thump, thump, thump. Then I’m aware of a conflicting noise and realise Caroline’s crying. Oh Christ. Going over to comfort her, I stop short of a cuddle as her clothes stink.
‘You shouldnae really be drinking. Want some Coke?’
She just keeps wailing.
‘… maybe you should take some medication. D’you still have any?’
‘I dinnae need medication. I need Nick,’ she snivels, throwing herself into my arms, smelly clothes and all.
God, is she still banging on about him? They split up over two years ago. She was bonkers long before that. That’s what drove him away. This is ruining my little vodka haze.
‘Look, you dinnae need a man. It’s hellish being tied down. I’d love to have what you have.’
‘What’ve I got, like?’ she asks, gesturing to her junk shop of a living room, ‘… go on, tell me, apart from an intimate knowledge of British television schedules?’
‘Freedom. Y’know … you can take my boyfriend but you cannae take my FREEDOM. You don’t have to consult about a dozen other people before you make a decision.’
At least I’ve stopped her crying.
‘But what’s the point in being free, if you’ve nobody to share it with?’ she says in all seriousness, before breaking into her first smile in decades. We start laughing, both of us. I wish I had the power to keep her like this, but I don’t.
‘Honestly, Caroline, nobody gives a shit about me either. The kids hate my guts. Vic winnae even share a bed with me any more. I’ve forgotten how to let people like me.’
This desperate admission seems to tickle her, somehow. Swallowing down the remainder of her drink, she hands me the glass.
‘Get us another, I actually do have something to tell you. Something good.’
Intrigued, I go to the kitchen for replenishing. There’s only enough for one big and one small one left. Pouring myself the big one, I knock back half the small one and top it up with Coke. She’s still smiling when I get back through. She’s even turned the radio down.
‘There’s this guy I met, just before I got discharged, I think maybe quite likes me…’
She pauses for my reaction.
‘That’s great. Who is he?’
‘You’ve got to swear no to tell another living soul. We could both be in danger if you do.’
‘I swear.’
She gets so close I can smell her again, and have to sniff at my glass to block it out.
‘He’s really nice. He sort of looks like Ian McKellen but not poofy, y’know. He was high up in the civil service but he lost his job, heavily into coke and that, and he basically ended up with nothing. Ended up in rehab.’
‘Ian McKellen?’
‘Well, y’know, better looking than Ian McKellen. A bit younger. Not snobby at all. Really easy to talk to.’
‘Give him a ring. Get him to bring some Bolivian marching powder round.’
She doesn’t even hear, she’s in full flow. It’s like someone’s unlocked the talk in her.
‘He’s told me so much, y’know, with him being a civil servant. Like, d’you know how many suicides there were in Scotland last year?’
I wait to be enlightened by her cheery bloke’s statistics but she wants to turn it into a party game.
‘No, come on, guess. In one year.’
‘I don’t know, a hundred and sixty.’
‘Five hundred and ninety-nine. Nearly twice as many as died in road accidents. Fucking freaky, eh?’
‘It’s a fair whack,’ I say, but really, in comparison to the number of people who must regularly feel like topping themselves, it’s toaty.
‘And it’s people like me, people like Clive and me.’
‘Clive, is that his name?’ As I stifle a chortle, a smile slips out. She ignores both smile and question.
‘Really, Angie, I’m no joking. It’s like Marilyn Monroe. Clive was involved with it himself, y’know, with Scottish Republicans. They pretended they were drug killings. That was his job.’
‘Oh, right, so he was a hit man?’
‘Aye, sort of, I suppose. He was dealing more with terrorists, but they do it to anyone who costs too much. Y’know, pretend it’s suicide. Say they’ve been playing Nirvana records backwards.’
She pauses, to give me time to take it all in. It’s disconcerting not knowing what sort of face to pull.
‘So is he, like, still an assassin or what?’
‘No, no, that’s how he ended up in the hospital. He couldn’t do it any more. He’s ashamed of what he’s done. It’s tearing him apart inside.’
What am I supposed to say? How should I react? I don’t know if it’s good she’s got a bit of company with Carlos the Jackal, or if it’ll just make her madder. There’s no vodka left and it’s only half-seven. I was planning to stay till Monday but I can’t listen to much more. Why can’t you just will yourself into a coma at times like this?
‘Come on. We need more drink. I’ll get it this time. Fancy getting a video?’
‘There’s none I can watch any more, without them terrifying me.’
Aw, gie’s a break.
Taking her to the shops is a bad idea. She keeps hesitating, looking round cars and making me run ahead to check behind hedges. She refuses to come in the grocer’s because of the situation in Iraq but doesn’t want to wait outside on her own. Is she doing this deliberately because I don’t visit her enough? Once we get back to the flat and I have vodka to pacify me, I hog the conversation so she won’t start raving on again. Besides, me talking about my own unhappiness seems to cheer her up.
‘… I mean does anybody actually bother to have kids any more? I’d rather have a career, you know, a bit of fulfilment but it’s like I missed the new way of thinking by about four years. Joni and Jake fucking hate me, really. And Vic’s so fucking straight it�
�s not true. Honestly, Caroline, marriage’s like basic training for terminal illness.’
Why did my life take that cruel turn? What is Rab, my jilted squaddie, doing now? A bit of me will always love him because it ended so inconclusively. You should never end relationships at their peak or they just eat away at you forevermore. How is it that on the rare occasions in life that I’ve taken other people’s advice, they’ve always been wrong? Everyone said Rab was a cunt, he’d shag a split heid. Vic was honest, dependable, worked hard and all the other Calvinist bullshit. All Rab had to offer me was a huge cock and a filthy mind. That would have been enough. That would have been almost too much in comparison. Never listen to other people. Live and die by your own decisions.
Getting myself another vodka, I bring the bottle back through. It’s time to stop fannying around and do some serious drinking. Rab was a drinker, too. My family were scared we’d encourage each other, just like Raymond and I are going to. Good old Vic, eh, practically teetotal, lovely family man and about as exciting as watching concrete. IFUCKINGHATEHIMIFUCKINGHATEHIM!
God, I almost forgot Caroline was here. She’s staring at the back of my chair rather intensely. I look behind me, but the stained bean bag doesn’t seem to merit her expression. Or is she just looking at the merry-go-round of bluebottles, buzzing about the lampshade à la Bangladesh?
‘It’s your dad. He’s right at your side,’ she whispers, smiling into nothingness. That’s not funny. It’s sick.
‘Come on. Don’t say stuff like that.’
But she keeps staring.
‘He’s wearing blue trousers and a cream raincoat.’
She knows he used to wear that. This is not amusing me in the slightest.
‘Don’t, Caroline. Please.’
‘I can’t help it. It happens to me all the time. Speak to him.’
Fuck this! Storming through to the bathroom, I sit on the pan, seething. What a sick bitch. Why do mentally ill people always try and bring you down to their level? I’m leaving if she’s going to head-fuck me like this. Then I realise I’ve left her alone with the drink, and worry she might be helping herself.
When I go back through, I ask if I can borrow a jumper. The temperature’s really dropped since it got dark. Caroline can’t afford heating as she gives all her money to charities, just so she’ll get some mail. The jumper she gives me has the same socky smell that seems to pervade the whole house. Still gittering from my stint in the Arctic bathroom, I suffer it.
She puts the radio back on. It’s still the same mindless music but increased vodka consumption makes it sound a bit better. I dance around with my drink, trying to reactivate my circulation. Caroline knocks up the volume and starts dancing with me, really into it, thrusting her arms violently, with a strangely sublime look on her face. Putting down my drink, I try to let go a bit myself, to work out some aggression. By the end of the first record, though, I’m getting chest pains and need to sit down for a drink and a fag. Caroline remains lost in it. I told her she was free.
Before long, her frenzied air-thumping develops into relentless spinning round. She wails as she does it. The image is slightly frightening and I have to stop her, as it’s freaking me out. By this time, though, her balance is completely fucked. She swaggers about the room, knocking into things, eyes all over the place. Oh, Christ.
‘D’you mind if I go to bed? I’m starting to feel bad again. Please stay, though. Dinnae leave me.’
Hallelujah!
‘I won’t, I won’t. That’s fine. I shouldn’t have been forcing drink on you all afternoon.’
‘No, honest, Angie. It’s been great. It’s the best time I’ve had for years,’ then she looks a bit woozy, ‘… too much excitement for one day, though. We’ve still got tomorrow.’
I start worrying about how I’m going to ditch her in the morning. Sod it, I’ve got time on my own now, just enjoy it. As I get the spare duvet from her room, I notice she sleeps in her clothes. No doubt in case the CIA turn up in the middle of the night, with a bottle of paracetamols and a spoon. No wonder the place stinks.
I put the radio off when I go back through, but if she starts crying out in the night I don’t want to hear, so I stick on the telly, and let it hum away in the background. It’s ridiculous. I’m starting to feel guilty for thinking about Rab tonight. Like I was being unfaithful to Raymond in some way just by thinking it. They’ve actually got a similar sexy confidence about them. Cuddling up in the duvet, I imagine every possible sexual scenario that may occur on Monday.
I wake up entwined in a sweaty heap at ten the next morning. My head’s throbbing but the unfinished vodka in front of me dulls it slightly. We drank less than half the second bottle – fucking waste. Since there’s no sign of Caroline, I go through to the kitchen, wash out a virtually empty sauce bottle and siphon in some of the surplus drink. She shouldn’t be boozing on her own and, besides, I paid for it.
I’m on my second vodka by the time she surfaces.
‘I’ll make breakfast. I can never be bothered when it’s just me.’
I raise my glass.
‘This’ll do me. I’m not a great eater in the mornings either.’
She starts sooking on a Mars chocolate drink from the fridge. Just the thought of it makes me nauseous. Then she makes revoltingly greasy French toast in the dirtiest frying pan I’ve ever seen. Escaping through to the living room, I decide to have one more drink, then leave. I can’t be noticeably pissed when I get in. They can’t stop me drinking, but I don’t want them to know, they’ll just give me grief.
Finishing my final drink in conjunction with her French toast, I go to get my bag. She’s at me immediately.
‘Aw, Angie, you arnae going are you? I thought you were staying till the morrow. We could go down the Botanics. Please, dinnae go.’
Despite her efforts to pull it off me, I manage to struggle into my jacket.
‘I’d love to, but I’ve got stuff to do for work, I’m sorry.’
‘You work in a bookie’s. What kind of stuff?’
‘Oh, you know, washing, ironing, shit that free people don’t have to worry about.’
‘I’m not going to see you for another four years, am I?’
‘No, honestly, it’s been great. We’ll make it a regular thing now, definitely.’
I’ll promise her anything if it’ll get me on the other side of that fucking door.
‘I’ve really missed you, Angie. When you phoned, I’d just decided I was going to rent a car, and take it into the country to gas myself. It’s amazing you called when you did.’
‘OK, then, I’ll give you a ring, maybe see you next weekend.’
She insists on a cuddle before letting me go. Smelly clothes aside, it’s a small price to pay. Hopefully, by next week my life will be transformed to such an extent I won’t need to resort to Caroline and her squalor any more. I mean to say, what’s the point in wasting valuable drinking time and money on a miserable fucker like that?
Chapter Thirteen
JONI
THANK GOD I finally feel better. I was holed up in this dump, puking my guts up, all day yesterday. Even last night, when I’d recovered a wee bit, I had to stay in my room cause Granda was round. He interrogates me about boyfriends and stuff. It gives me the creeps, he probably gets off on it. Why do old people have to be so fucking nosy anyway? I don’t give a shit about his sad life, so why should he concern himself with mine? He could rob banks and shag his budgie, for all I care.
Rosie phoned in the afternoon. Apparently, she bumped into young Jackie in the queue outside Century 2000, while I was getting chased the other night, and they ended up going back to the Barracuda. Cheers, y’know, just leave me to get murdered. Then she had the fucking gall to say she’s never going up Lothian Road with me again after what happened. Making out like it was all my fault. I ended up putting the phone down on the jealous bitch.
Going through for a wash, I almost put hair-removing cream on my toothbrush by accident.
Mum’s left the tube lying next to the toothpaste, stupid cow. It was probably deliberate. Mind you, I do have a bit of a moustache. It’s fair but you can still notice it. As I rub a thick layer of the lotion onto my upper lip, I suddenly get a shooting pain in my stomach. I just manage to make the pan before my bottom explodes. Where is it all coming from? I haven’t eaten since Friday. I’m never touching seafood again.
By the time I stop crapping, my tache is stinging like fuck. Shit, I was only supposed to leave the cream on five minutes. Diving over to the sink, I wash it off, then throw cold water on it to try and soothe the nippiness. In the process, I take off about ten layers of skin and I’m left with this big, sore, burnt patch, like Tom fucking Selleck. I try putting foundation over it, but it looks even sillier. Mum’s make-up’s about twenty shades darker than her skin so it makes me look like I’ve got a big fucking birthmark under my nose. Dad’ll probably think I’ve been snorting cocaine. Sometimes I just wish I was dead. Thank fuck nobody’s in.
To take my mind off it, I go through to their bedroom to nick more money. Paranoid about how much I’ve been taking from the holiday envelope, I take tenners out of electricity, gas, telephone, Council Tax and birthdays instead. God knows how much there must be altogether, hundreds of pounds. Obviously not too much, though, or they’d notice it was disappearing.
I sniff the five crisp tenners in my hand. How come money always smells the same, even though thousands of different people have touched it? What’s it made out of that makes it stink like that? Hiding it inside an old radio I’ve taken the batteries out of, I go and wash my hands. If they smell it off me, they might realise what I’ve been up to. I try Rosie again.