Born Free

by Laura Hird

  The taxi hits all seven sets of red lights as we travel less than half a mile to the other shop. Once I get there, they make me fill in about a dozen different forms and insist on counting the ten grand twice in my presence. By the time they finally free me, I’m fit to be tied.

  There’s no sign of Paddy or the police when I get back and most of the regulars have shown their support by leaving. Only the Chinese guys remain – too focused on losing to have noticed anything happening in the first place.

  ‘Christ, I could murder a drink,’ Raymond mutters, alcohol perspiration running down his face and neck. I know that greasy feeling so well. As he counts the money again, I go to the kitchen and splash some of my quarter bottle in a mug, slugging back a mouthful myself. He sniffs and whirls it about before knocking it back in one. Almost simultaneously, four cops burst through the door in a overdone stake-out sort of way. When they realise there’s just us and the Chinamen, two of them leave again. Raymond chomps frantically on Polo Mints.

  They seem to swallow up all the space when I let them behind the counter. Why do coppers always have such huge feet and enormous arses? The older of the two sniffs at the air and winks at his colleague. Christ, it probably smells like a brewery in this enclosed space.

  The younger one takes my statement, but my mind seems to seize up on every detail, like it’s already blocking it out. They spend less than ten minutes with us and make no attempt to hide their irritation at being called out on something so inconsequential. The older one’s Irish himself, which doesn’t help. I was sort of expecting an armed guard till closing time, whereas they only seem bothered with descriptions. Probably so they can pick the cunt up quicker once he’s shot us.

  As they’re leaving, the guy comes waltzing back in, gunless. Raymond knocks on the glass, making unsubtle shooting gestures at the departing cops. The older one looks alarmed, then realises what he’s on about and begins explaining our complaint to the bastard as he walks meekly up to the pay-out.

  ‘Ocht, I’m so sorry. I should never mix drink and horses. If you put a bet on, though, you’d expect to get paid if you won, no? Oi wasn’t aware that complaining about second-rate service was a criminal offence.’

  As I count the money yet again, securing grands with elastic bands, the younger cop watches with his gob open. It no doubt reminds him of the last bung he took. As I slide the wads under to Irish boy, he tears a 20 off and slips it back through. The older copper tuts and they escort the man out, laughing and joking. It’s ridiculous. Someone threatens to kill us and we end up being made to feel like we’ve deliberately disrupted the peace process. Fucking Masons.

  There’s still another two races to go but the fuzz have scared everyone off. There’s a mouthful left in my quarter bottle for us both. Slightly settled by it, we start cashing up early. Despite having hardly any money left, we’re 40 quid over.

  ‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers,’ Raymond says after our fourth attempt, stuffing the offending notes in his pocket. ‘We’ll check it again in the morning. I can always put it back.’

  I go through to the kitchen and put the money in the safe. Raymond’s leaning back on the counter with his legs open and lip curled when I go back through. Anyone else would look ridiculous in such a pose but him doing it gives me a bolt of desire like an electric shock.

  ‘Did you put your knickers back on?’

  ‘No.’

  The taste of drink and Polos on his warm lips is divine. His hands seem to go everywhere at once as he hoicks up my skirt and throws me, face-first, over the desk.

  ‘D’you want to go home with wet knickers again, Mrs Scott?’

  Reading my mind, he subjects me to a short, sharp shag, the settling machine rattling on the desk in syncopation. I don’t orgasm but it doesn’t bother me. If I concentrate too much on coming during sex, I tend to lose track of what’s going on. Besides, it’s fodder for a thousand future wanks. Raymond was right, I do like to go home with wet knickers. These foolish things and all that.

  We make a beeline for the pub as soon as we’ve fucked, same as yesterday. Unfortunately, Ronnie, the manager of the rival bookie’s round the corner, is in, and insists on buying us a drink. Raymond puts his hand on mine to stop me drumming my fag packet on the table. Ronnie looks down, waiting for him to remove it but he doesn’t.

  ‘Dangerous, dangerous …’ Ronnie warns. Obviously, William Hill’s indoctrinate them in the relationships-at-work-are-evil ethos better than our lot do.

  I drink slowly, even saying no to a couple of rounds. It’s inconsequential what Ronnie might think of me but I don’t want him passing silent judgement on my alcohol consumption. They rabbit on about the Irish git and compare punters-throwing-wobblies stories. My rage intensifies behind a fixed grin, until he finally fucks off at quarter past eight.

  Another couple of double vodkas and one of Raymond’s lovely whisky kisses soon melt my stiff sulkiness, however. It feels as if the world is something insignificant that revolves round the pair of us. All I want is here with me now.

  By nine-thirty, we’re half-cut and all over each other. The barmaid keeps wiping our table in a bid to embarrass us into behaving. We ignore her. I’m becoming obsessed with the idea of going back to the shop for afters. Raymond’s worried about the alarm going off and the police coming back but I’m feeling so fucking horny I’d probably ask them to join in.

  Last orders are called. They let us get two drinks each but as soon as the second bell’s rung, they want our glasses. I resist a terrific urge to kick over the table, only because we have nowhere else round here to go to. Besides, I’m still at the pretending-to-be-demure-and-submissive stage of my relationship with Raymond. You can’t afford to let men see the real you until they’re too smitten to object. If that blonde barmaid calls him ‘sweetheart’ one more time though … I get myself out onto the street before my violent fantasies become reality.

  We stand hugging, kissing and lamenting in the pub doorway until the blonde bitch comes out, looks at us with contempt and stops a taxi. I wonder if she knows how close she’s just come to losing her eyes.

  It’s five to twelve. It’s been easy with Vic working late this week but next week’s going to take a lot of explaining. We agree that we’ll have to sort something out by then. It’s only been a few days but it doesn’t seem to matter. Reluctantly hailing me a cab, Raymond tries to make me take a tenner for the fare. Pushing it back in his trouser pocket, I give his shank a goodnight stroke.

  We arrange to meet back in the pub before work tomorrow, then suddenly there’s a slam and he’s gone. I feel like fucking Cinderella. I had more freedom when I was 15 and living at home.

  Joni’s sprawled on the settee when I get in, scowling at figure-skaters on TV. It’s like landing without a parachute.

  ‘I didn’t know you were into that sort of thing,’ I say, more to hear if my voice sounds OK than in an attempt at conversation.

  ‘I’m not. It’s crap.’

  ‘Is your brother in?’

  ‘He’s downstairs at his boyfriend’s.’

  I let this one go as she’s probably just trying to start something. So what if he was gay anyway? The sooner this family’s genetic line is no more the better.

  ‘No Rosie tonight?’

  She tuts, as if I’m some sort of idiot.

  ‘I fell out with Rosie ages ago. You just aren’t interested enough to notice.’

  Ditto.

  ‘What about your other friends?’

  ‘What other friends? They’re all Rosie’s pals. I lost all my pals when we moved here.’

  I’m in no mood to be made a scapegoat for her unpopularity.

  ‘Have some folk round for your birthday next week. Dad can go to Granda’s, I’ll go to the pictures or something, so we don’t cramp your style.’

  Oh no, am I trying to be too nice? She’ll know I’m pissed.

  ‘Aw, yeah, brilliant idea, Mum. I’m not seven years old any more, you know?’

 
; ‘I’m not suggesting jelly and ice cream. I could maybe stretch to a bowl of punch. And I am aware how old you are. Believe me I’ve felt every year of it.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum. I feel a lot better now,’ she drawls, switching off the television. I pray she’s going to bed, but she hesitates at the living-room door.

  ‘If you really wanted to do something, though, there is somewhere I fancy going.’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘Well, there’s this Italian restaurant in Lothian Road. The food’s supposed to be really good and it’s quite reasonable and that. You, me, Dad and Jake could go.’

  Surely she’s not that desperate. I wouldn’t even be able to drink.

  ‘A meal?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s a pretty normal thing to do on someone’s birthday, isn’t it? I thought you’d be pleased.’

  Oh yes, I’m delighted. Little bitch.

  ‘But why, Joni? You can’t even stand to eat in the same room as us. You can’t speak to me without that whiny sarcastic tone in your voice. You batter your brother and accuse your father of abusing you. Why in God’s name would you want to go out for a meal with us?’

  Pushing me out the way, she makes for the hall. ‘Oh, don’t bother. I wouldn’t want to disrupt your hectic social life.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Bookie’s aren’t open till midnight, you know. Where have you been?’

  She chooses now to start taking an interest?

  ‘A man went mental in the shop, said he was going to shoot us. The police were in for hours, then I had to take the relief cashier home. I think she was in shock. I didn’t want to leave her on her own.’

  I’m scared to stop talking in case she interrogates me but there’s no need as she merely screams, ‘Aye, right!’ before slamming herself in her bedroom.

  I hate fucking kids. They never stop nip, nip, nipping from the day they’re born. Why is wanting some kind of life for yourself after you’ve had kids a sin akin to granny bashing? Joni’ll get pregnant. That’ll be the next thing. The next generation of misery. This awful idea reminds me to keep taking the pill next week when it should be my week off. My relationship with Raymond is too intense for menstruation at the moment.

  With Moaning Minnie out the way, I pour myself a vodka from the vinegar bottle at the back of the kitchen cupboard. It’s ridiculous, sneaking round like this when I never had a serious drink problem in the first place. If I had, I wouldn’t have been able to stop for three years, without going to the AA. Gulping it down, I rinse out the glass before someone comes in. It’s like being in Cornton Vale.

  I go through to the bedroom, to find something to wear tomorrow. My wardrobe is like a museum piece on frumpiness. What’s the point in making the effort, though, if your husband can’t get it up in the first place? Oh, no, please don’t make God have been listening there. It would be grotesque if Vic suddenly started wanting it again after all these years. Praise be to Prozac.

  Chapter Seventeen

  JONI

  I’M TOTALLY FUCKED UP. I’ve been moping round the house for days. This morning, I couldn’t even face school. I told Dad it was period pains but it’s my personality that’s the real problem. It must be, otherwise I’d have pals. I can’t even sleep, which makes the days even longer and more awful. Dad’s on the back-shift, so I stay in bed till lunch time, X2ing over Richard Madeley, planning my apology to Rosie, wondering what my family would be like if I’d never been born.

  When I get up at half-one, Dad’s still not left for work. He apparently has the shits, so he’s chain-smoking and drinking black coffee to try and empty his bowels before his shift. Exactly why he thinks I might be interested in this revolting fact is beyond me.

  We sit watching Neighbours, even though it’s been rubbish since Joe Mangel left to become a crap comedian. For some reason, most of the cast are round Helen’s house, watching a video of Jason and Kylie’s wedding. Surely this must be the ultimate in boredom – watching people on telly watching telly. Then a character I’ve never seen before comes to the door, looks at Helen and announces she’s dead. Really, they’ve all been sitting round watching a video with a corpse. It’s bizarre.

  Dad’s got tears in his eyes. For fuck’s sake, why is he such a sap? They play the theme tune really slow at the end, like they do in soaps when one of the old cunts dies, or someone leaves to have an embarrassing stab at pop-stardom. It’s ten past two.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be going to work?’ I ask, hoping it’s just slipped Dad’s mind.

  ‘You want rid of me, like?’

  What does he think? Naw, I want to sit round watching crappy soaps with my wimpy father all day. He goes through to the bathroom to shave. Following him through, I try to sweet-talk him into taking us to the Antonio restaurant for my birthday.

  ‘I’m game for that. When is it again? Friday?’

  Charming, my own father doesn’t even know when my birthday is.

  ‘Aye, but I’ve already asked Mum. She said I don’t deserve it cause I don’t eat in the same room as you. She thought it was a shite idea.’

  He looks at me in the mirror as he slices through the foam.

  ‘Rubbish. She’ll be dead chuffed.’

  ‘Naw, Dad, honest, she said she’d get bevvy for me and my pals and you could go to Granda’s.’

  He finishes shaving, wipes the surplus foam from his ears, and slaps himself on the face. I follow him through for his jacket.

  ‘Sorry, Joni, you’ve lost me. What is it you actually want? I’m not buying you drink. You want to have a party here?’

  Is he thick or what?

  ‘Naw, Dad, listen to me. I want to go for a meal. It’s Mum wants me to have a party. Go an speak to her? It’s my 16th, I should get to do what I want.’

  He agrees, but I know he’ll chicken out of asking her. At least, it finally gets rid of him, though. As soon as he’s out the door, I tear off my nightie, put on my black Levi’s, stolen tight, white v-neck top and patent leather platform ankle boots.

  Going through to the money mattress, I have to do some shrewd arithmetic. There’s only £30 left in the Joni envelope, so I put in 20 each from Council Tax and telephone. Then I have to put 30 from gas into electricity as the bill arrived yesterday. I only get ten each from the Jake envelope and holidays, for myself. Jesus, when did Mum last put any money in? It’s going to run out at this rate.

  Since Rosie should be back from school by now, I decide it’s time to have friends rather than principles. When I get round there, her mum answers. Rosie’s not in yet. I say I’ll wait in her room, but she directs me into the lounge. The interrogation starts before I’ve even sat down – when did I last speak to Rosie? What did we fall out about? Has Rosie said anything about John? Have I met John? Did I go babysitting with Rosie the other week? Did Emma say anything strange? Fucking hell. I deny everything, including having fallen out in the first place and ever having met John.

  When Rosie finally does come in, she doesn’t exactly look pleased to see me. She just looks scared.

  ‘What is this?’ she squeals.

  ‘I just came to see what you were up to. Fancy coming round mines?’

  She looks hugely relieved and we both make for the front door. Her mother shouts after us to keep away from John. Oh fuck, the shit must have finally hit the fan.

  ‘What’s happened? She was asking me loads of questions. I didnae tell her anything, though.’

  ‘Sshhh, no here,’ she says, as if the whole street might be bugged. I’m not even allowed to mention it until we get back to my house. This must be mega. Lighting up one of Dad’s fags, I chuck her the packet. She sits on the rug, takes one and shakes her head at me. ‘There’s really heavy shit going on, Jo, it’s been really bad.’

  ‘What, what? Tell me. What’s happened?’

  Once she starts, I can’t take it all in. Every sentence is more unbelievable than the last. John’s spent two nights in police cells because Emma, spastic Emma, sai
d he’d been interfering with her. As if. And Rosie’s mum confronted her with the video tape. Rosie said she’d never seen it before but they know she’s lying. They know I know too. Oh, fuck.

  ‘They want me to go to court, to say stuff against John.’ She starts crying. ‘I winnae do it, Jo. He hasnae done anything I didnae want him to. Emma’s lying. Folk like her dinnae ken what’s real.’

  What if I have to go to court because Rosie told me what was happening?

  ‘Maybe she made it up ’cause she’s jealous about John and her mum.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Well, they’re shagging, aren’t they? Maybe she got pissed off ’cause she fancies him.’

  ‘He isnae shagging that old bag. I told you. She just works for him.’

  Jeanette’s thick make-up and tarty clothes suddenly make sense.

  ‘What, is John a pimp?’

  ‘What are you on about? He’s a care assistant. How could you think he was a pimp? You’re as bad as them.’

  I don’t know how to respond so I shut up and let her ramble on.

  ‘I’ve been trying to phone him since the police let him go on Sunday. That’s how I was funny with you. It’s just constantly off the hook. I cannae go round there ’cause the neighbours aw ken me. They’ll tell Mum. I wish I was dead, Jo, I really do.’ And she starts doing big sobs. I’ve never seen her like this. Shuffling across the carpet, I give her a cuddle. She sniffles into my ear.

  ‘You wouldnae do me a huge favour, would you? I’m sorry we fell out, I really missed you. There’s nobody else I can talk about this with.’

  ‘Anything, pal, just say.’

  She hesitates, like she thinks I’m not going to like what she has to say.

  ‘You wouldnae go round there for me, would you? Find out what’s going on? It’s a stair so nobody’ll ken you’re going to his house. Please, pal.’