by Laura Hird
‘Telling your mother something, and getting her to do it are two very different things, Jo, you know that.’
‘But you have to. If she doesn’t go, I will.’
Christ, a nine-hour shift and then this. I’m too knackered for ultimatums. Besides, it’s not a criminal offence to be pissed in your own living room, unfortunately.
‘I’ll sort it, promise. Maybe it was just a one-off. She was at some work do.’
Maybe that’s it – someone slipped her a Mickey, or she couldn’t not drink without admitting why.
‘Aw, Dad, you always take her side. Why d’you make excuses for her?’
‘I’m not taking anyone’s side. I just don’t understand what would have set her off again. It could have been accidental.’
‘Oh, fuck off, Dad. This is exactly what happened last time. It ended up getting really bad ’cause you wouldn’t admit it was happening away at the start.’
‘I was just trying to keep the family together.’
Jumping into bed, she yanks the duvet round herself.
‘You shouldn’t have bothered. Families are stupid. There’s always one person drags everyone else down.’
I can’t really argue, although in the case of Angie’s lot, they were all like that.
‘Maybe the four of us should sit down together in the morning and talk about it.’
The suggestion doesn’t seem to impress her.
‘It’s not our problem. You’re the one who married her.’
With that vote of support, I leave her to it.
The living room’s reeking of drink. Surely I’d have smelt it, if she’d been at it before tonight. The thing is, I never see her. She could roll in cow shit for kicks and I’d be none the wiser.
As I rifle her bag for fags, I find an empty half-bottle of vodka. God knows how many more might be deposited round the flat. I look down at the gaping-mouthed snorting bitch, as I smoke. No wonder I can’t get it up any more. Generally, I’d turn her onto her side in case she vomits in her sleep but I don’t bother. At least I get the bed tonight.
My head hits the pillow, ashtray eyebrow first. The pain seems to give me clarity. Was she pissed when she threw that at me? Has she been lying through here bevvying when I’ve been squashed on the settee? Maybe Joni’s right. I do go into denial. That’s how it managed to get so bad last time. We had a lovely cheap housing-association flat up the back of Fountainbridge – no repair bills, nice big garden. Then Angie got reported for abusing neighbours, smashing the place up, threatening to jump out our third-floor window in the middle of the night. Why didn’t I just let her?
Twisting my industrial ear plugs in until they nip, I can still hear snoring, and the counteractive boom of Joni’s music. Hiding under the duvet, I try to get lost in my breathing, but my head’s still fizzing with it all hours later. She was sober enough when I took her for lunch the other day. Maybe the anniversary of her dad’s death set her off.
I’m still mulling it over when it starts to get light. There’s probably accompanying birdsong, but by now the plugs have inflated in my ears. Apart from what’s going on in my own head, I can hear nothing. Oh to be deaf and dumb.
I wake at half-ten, with a strange presence in the bed beside me. Staring under the quilt, I’m confronted by my first erection in over a year. I have to touch it to check it’s really mine. Talk about bizarre timing. Then I remember my dream about an impending tidal wave that involved Rosie squirming around on my lap, with her little red panties stuffed in my mouth. Jesus, is that what I’m really like? Is it not the Prozac after all? Am I really just a dirty old bastard? If I thought someone my age was having thoughts about Joni like that, I’d bloody kill them. I can’t even wank now, I feel so off.
When I go through, the settee’s been vacated but the shower’s on. Making two strong black coffees, I sit on the armchair and wait. As soon as I hear the water being switched off, though, I start trying to talk myself out of confronting her. I’m an A1 coward. I admit it. I’ve never won an argument in my life. What’s it going to resolve anyway? I’ll just get a load of abuse. I’m lighting another of her pilfered cigarettes when she comes through, towelling her hair. The cloud of smoke in the darkened room seems to startle her.
‘Jesus, what is this? The Third Man?’
‘I took one of your fags.’
Putting on the light, she looks in her bag to confirm this.
‘So you’ve been raking through my handbag. Bored, were we?’
Launching into my rehearsed line about finding the bottle, she drowns me out with the hair-drier. I toy with pulling it off her and choking her with the flex, but I keep calm, keep dragging on the cigarette, waiting, trying not to lose my nerve.
When she eventually switches the sodding thing off, I retrieve the bottle from the bin and wave it in front of her. She blanks me and goes to the bathroom. I follow.
‘Anything you want to tell me?’
‘Not particularly.’
She pulls a grotesque face as she applies her lipstick.
‘Like what that bottle was doing in your bag?’
My voice is breaking up. I’m not used to this assertive shit.
‘No idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, come off it, eh?’
‘No, Vic, you come off it. If you’ve got something to say, then fucking say it. Otherwise, I’d like to piss in peace.’
Say it, just say it, you mouse.
‘You were drunk last night, weren’t you?’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘What would you say, then? Were you or weren’t you?’
‘You tell me. You’re the one making the accusations. I don’t even remember seeing you last night.’
‘You were sleeping when I got in.’
There’s a growl from the back of her throat as she tries to push me into the hall.
‘Oh, right, so was I slurring my zeds or what?’
She tries to shut me out but I jam the door with my gorilla feet.
‘Why don’t you ask your precious daughter how the bottle got in my bag,’ cause I don’t fucking know.’
‘Or can’t remember …’
‘Oh, spare me the Endeavour Morse, Vic, please. You always have to take their word against mine, eh? That’s what’s fucking wrong with us.’
Giving up trying to keep me out, she pulls down her knickers and starts peeing. Difficult as it is to engage in serious conversation with someone while they’re on the pan, I’m determined not to let her phase me.
‘I know you were pissed. Just admit it.’
She wipes herself and pulls up her knickers.
‘What’s the point? Vic says I was pissed, so I must have been pissed.’
‘But I want you to hear yourself say it.’
She darts through for her coat and bag. I wait in the hall.
‘Tell you what, Vic. So you don’t need to keep repeating yourself, I’m going out. So you and Joni and your fucking son can have a good old fucking talk about me. Dream up what you’re going to accuse me of next.’
She opens the front door. I soften my tone to spare the neighbours.
‘Where are you going? The pub?’
She looks at me with utter loathing.
‘Actually, I’m going to see my poor, sick, mentally disturbed friend, Caroline, for some intelligent conversation.’
‘Angie, we need to talk.’
‘What have we just been doing? Sorry, Vic, time’s up. You’re just irritating me now.’
Trundling down the stairs, she hesitates on the landing below.
‘D’you think she doesn’t do the same thing with me? Make up stories about you to turn us against each other. It wasnae me she was threatening to phone Childline about, eh, but I stuck up for you. That’s the difference, I know when someone’s just being vindictive.’
‘She didn’t make it up,’ I croak, inaudibly.
I wait till the stair door slams before going back in. The bitch has taken her
fags. She’s definitely bullshitting me. Joni wouldn’t make that up. I wish she had, but no, surely not. Rosie didn’t exactly back up her story, but I still find it hard to believe. I take a sip of tepid coffee. The only thing I know for sure any more is that one of them’s a bloody convincing liar.
Chapter Twenty-Three
JAKE
I REFUSE TO let the Mum thing put me on a downer. It’s the holidays. I’ll just spend the next fortnight down Sean’s and avoid her. I’m going down there to watch the Old Firm match this afternoon. I’ve got more to worry about than my stupid family.
As Eva’s going to be there, I force myself under the shower. I hate showers as I never seem to dry myself properly, so my clothes go on all sticky and squint. Plus, dirt protects you. The more bacteria there is on your skin, the harder it is for germs to get into you. Without my layer of filth, I feel like Samson with a baldy.
Once I’m back through in my bedroom, it’s not quite so bad. Despite constant nagging from Mum, I refuse to tidy in here. Why make it easier for the rest of them to find my stuff? That’s if the combined smell of minging socks, shitey trainers and a thousand farts clinging to the wallpaper doesn’t put them off coming in here in the first place. It’s a protective seal, just like my dirt.
I don’t know what top to wear – Rangers or Bayern Munich. Never having watched an Old Firm match with Celtic supporters before, I don’t want to seem like I’m taking the piss. My Klinsmann top’s probably the safest bet. I used to love old Jürgen, till Dad took me to see Bayern play a friendly against some shitey Fife team and the bastard sat on the bench for the entire match. Everyone’d paid double to see him as well. Fucking Kraut, he’s past it now anyway.
I go through to make a sandwich. Joni and dad are sitting at the special-occasion table, deep in thought. Jan’s staring up at them as if she maybe wants to have her say as well. My appetite vanishes.
‘S’down, Jake. We need to talk about Mum.’
I don’t want to talk about Mum, I want to get psyched up for the match.
‘Da-ad. I’m in a hurry. I dinnae have anything to say.’
He lights a fag off the one he’s already smoking. It pisses me off when he goes all serious like this, so I go back to my room. Joni comes barging in behind me.
‘What’s the problem, scab? We need to sort this out.’
Sometimes I prefer when she’s not talking to me. She’s been ignoring me for months. Why drag me into this?
‘Aw, get a life, Jo. I’m no ganging up on Mum. She’s no even done anything.’
‘Fuck off. What about her hitting me last night?’
‘So what? She hits you, you hit me, I hit you. What’s the fucking difference?’
‘Aye, but we dinnae do it ’cause we’re pissed.’
‘So. You get pissed an aw.’
‘That’s different.’
‘How?’
‘I dunno … like … y’know, it’s no like I’ve got a family to look after. I dinnae do it every day.’
‘Not yet, you dinnae.’
I’m sick of this. So my family’s a disaster. Who cares? I’ve got a decent family downstairs I can spend time with.
As I make for the hall, her face takes on its more familiar sarky expression.
‘Rosie’s got the hots for you.’
‘Don’t talk shite.’
‘Honest, she said last night. She wouldnae shut up about you, actually. Fuck knows why.’ She blocks the doorway. ‘… I’m telling you, she’s just become single again. You could get her on the rebound, no problem.’
Does she really think I’ll fall for this? I push past her into the stair.
‘Going to Sean’s?’ she whines.
‘Yeah, so?’ I expect some sarcastic poofy comment, but she keeps smiling.
‘He seems nice. I should come down with you some time.’
‘Oh aye. You, me, Sean and Rosie can double-date. Sure, Jo.’
Escaping down the stairs, I don’t ring Sean’s bell till I hear the slagging bitch go back in the flat. I’m unprepared when Eva answers.
‘It’s the little orange man,’ she shouts, patting my bum as I walk up the hall. Wow. Wise move wearing these baggy shorts.
Sean comes out his room and pulls me back into the stair.
‘I’ve got to take soup up my fucking auntie’s. Goan chum eis. I want to get it done, so’s I can settle down for the football.’
Still in an Eva-fondled daze, I stumble after him. We walk behind Burger King, up the old railway. Stopping to smoke a few fags, we smash a bin bag full of beer bottles someone’s dumped. There must be about 40. It’s like the dance floor in a Paki musical by the time we’ve finished. Then an old dear comes towards us with her dog, so we nash before its paws turn to mince.
I wait outside Sean’s auntie’s stair so he has an excuse not to stay. She lives on her own, so she’s probably just lonely like Granda, but it’s Old Firm Day, for fuck’s sake. Luckily, a neighbour answers, so we manage a quick getaway before his auntie gets out the cludge.
We pass the Catholic Church on the way back down. Sean says the priest in there’s an old paedophile, and shags all the bairns from the Sunday School. I think he’s just winding me up, so he takes me in to see for myself. It’s disgusting, the guy’s absolutely ancient, y’know, about 90. He does boys and girls apparently. Gets them to confess they’ve been wanking, then makes them show him what they mean. The old spunk-face is straight over as soon as we’re in the door.
‘Oh, it’s you, Sean. Don’t tell me, you’re going to arrange a sponsored walk for the Church Roof Fund?’
‘’Fraid no, Father. I’ve just come to light a candle. My pal here wants to light one too.’ He squirms away from the old bugger, towards this big wedding-cake-type thing with candles on it. Dropping 20 pence into a little box, he hands me a candle from the floor. For a horrible moment, I think I’m going to have to stick it up the priest’s arse or something. The old cunt just gives us a horrid, pervy grin, squeezes my shoulder and fucks off. I get the giggles.
‘Ssh, he’ll hear you. Just light it and say this, “Hail Mary Full of Grace…”’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Dinnae, Jake. He’ll come and shag you.’
We both start giggling. The priest comes back up the aisle, looking pissed off, so Sean starts saying the Hail Mary thing, the whole thing. It’s weird stuff about sinners.
‘Wish for something,’ he whispers, after repeating it so often even I know the fucking thing off by heart, ‘… anything you like. I got the Internet with it. And I asked for Dad to come and see us the other week and we bumped into him two days later. It definitely works.’
I don’t exactly feel comfortable about this but, since having your wishes granted isn’t exactly an everyday occurrence, I give it a bash. Shutting my eyes, I wish with all my heart that Rangers’ll go top of the League, it’ll be an Old Firm Cup Final and Rangers do the double.
‘How many wishes do I get?’
‘One for each candle.’
Oh, well, if I just say Rangers for the double, then that’s just one. Excellent. Why don’t Proddies have stuff like this? Ten pence for Rangers to win the double, amazing.
When we get back to Sean’s, Eva and me have a FIFA preview of the match to get us in the mood. She’s so hopeless at it, it’s embarrassing. I give her a chance at first, but it makes me look shite. Just sitting next to her for half an hour is fucking ace, though.
At three o’clock, we go through to the living room and drape ourselves about the floor cushions for the game. As soon as it starts, I suddenly feel like a Nazi storm trooper at a bar mitzvah. It’s not Sean or Eva’s fault, they’re just getting into it, shouting for fouls and penalty kicks, calling the ref a Mason, normal stuff. It’s the fact that what they’re saying’s so inoffensive in comparison to what I’m used to coming out with on such occasions. I can’t exactly sing anti-IRA songs, so I just have to sit, quiet apart from the odd grunt, or ‘you bastard’. Celtic ar
e all over us in the first half as well. If it wasn’t for Randy Goram, they’d probably be about eight-nil up by half time. I’m fucking seething.
The second half ’s not quite so bad. Without opening my mouth, I watch Rangers win two-one. Sean’s still going on about the Stewart McCall handball when the highlights come on. I’ve never felt so unenthusiastic about an Old Firm match in my life. Thank fuck we’re only playing Hearts in the final.
Sean’s mum calls us through to the kitchen and produces a massive lasagne. It feels odd to eat at a table. It’s like we’re in a sitcom. All the different cutlery’s set out but I just use a fork, or I’ll get it everywhere. It’s so gorgeous and cheesy, it makes my mouth really slavery. Sean’s mum tells me to call her by her first name, Terry. We talk about the football as we eat. She’s dead nice about Rangers winning, even though she’s a Celtic supporter.
‘It would be good if Rangers got the Cup and Celtic won the League.’
What did I just say? I don’t know where the words came from. Granda’ll be spinning in his grave. It’s like American Werewolf. I’m turning from a Hun into a Tim in front of their very eyes. Why did I let Sean take me in that fucking church?
By the time we go back through to watch Sky Sport, I’m getting dead paranoid. Is this how Catholics convert people? Sort of like Mormons, except they invite you round their place? I’m sure I’m getting subliminal messages from that picture of the Pope on the mantelpiece. Leaning back on a cushion, I fall into a dream, watching Eva watching telly. The fear goes.
I lie in this gorgeous little dwam until half-seven. Eva suddenly gets up and turns the volume down.
‘Listen, it’s the nurse again, listen …’
All I can hear is Sean sniggering, Butthead-like. When he calms down, though, the banging and voices are really clear. It sounds more like they’re fighting tonight. You can almost make out what they’re saying. Fuck, they sound awfie familiar.
‘… boring fucking bastard … bottleless fucking cunt.’
Tell me I’m dreaming, please. Mum can’t burst her way into my safe little world like this. I pretend there’s something fascinating on the telly. I start gibbering away a load of cheesy old jokes from the Chubby Brown video. Eva looks totally unimpressed but I’m just desperate to drown them out upstairs. They’ll realise who it is, any minute. They probably already know but are too embarrassed to say. Then it suddenly hits me like a train. The most revolting thought I’ve ever had. If the shouting’s coming from my house, who the fuck was getting shagged up there the other night?