by Laura Hird
‘I couldn’t live with myself if I did something like that. Honest Angie, I’ve got so much love in me going to waste. If I had a man, I really feel I could get better. It’s not drugs I need, it’s someone to look after, to look after each other.’
The conversation always has to come back to Caroline. I make the mistake of asking how things are going with the hit man and her. She shushes me down, as if he’s maybe through in the bedroom with a silencer.
‘Please, don’t mention Clive. He was just head-fucking me like the rest of them. Don’t say his name again, please, pretend I never mentioned it.’
I didn’t say his fucking name. Please, God, can I die before I get like that?
‘Couldn’t you get a job in a charity shop or something? You’d meet men there.’
It’s patronising and pathetic but I’m just trying to be realistic.
‘What about Vic? Doesn’t he have any pals you could fix me up with? He must know nice people.’
Why doesn’t she just get a taxi round there and suck his dick? Mind you, I wouldn’t wish the smelly bitch on my worst enemy.
‘Vic doesn’t have any friends, Caroline. Vic is a boring tosser.’
She’s mortified, fucking nerve, judging my relationships when she can’t sustain one herself. Why are single people such arsewipes? None of my married friends see fit to throw their oar in about my marriage. Glugging down her vodka, she demands a refill. There’s hardly any left. I know I’ve drunk most of it but I expected a litre to last slightly longer than an hour and a half.
Her next swallow reduces her to tears. Bubbling over to the unit, fleeing, she knocks the fresh drink onto the carpet. It’s so obviously deliberate, I feel like braining her. Instead, I pour her a spit-full and top it up with the last of the Diet Coke. Thankfully, she can’t drink it straight. I can. A bottle of pills are rattled in my face.
‘Diazepam, I’m saving them. The hospital think I’m on three a day but I’ve not taken any for a fortnight. Twenty’s enough to kill you but I want to make sure I do it properly.’
What am I supposed to say? If her life’s as horrendous as she makes out, it’s hardly my place to deter her. Maybe I should suggest she does it somewhere more isolated, though. If nobody found her, I could move in and live off her Disability Living Allowance. Sadly, in my experience, people who threaten suicide, never actually do it. It’s always the ones who grin and bear it that seem to blow their brains out.
‘If Raymond doesn’t get in touch, I might join you.’ She looks ghoulishly excited. ‘… he better, I’m not spending the rest of my life with that cockless catatonic.’ I smile into my drink, feeling pissed enough now to enjoy getting a rise out of her.
‘You don’t deserve ’im. You sold yer soul to Satan for a good shag.’
‘When’s the last time you had a good shag, like? I don’t think you ever have or you’d understand what I was talking about. It was sooo good, Caroline, sooo fucking good. I just want to fuck him again, you know, just fuck him.’
She looks gobsmacked, for some reason.
‘I cannae believe you, I cannae believe how selfish you are. I tell you I’m going to kill myself and all you care about is getting screwed. Haven’t you any feelings?’ She sits down, knackered from her little oration.
‘Gie’s a break, Caroline. How do we always have to talk about your problems? It gets monotonous after a while. And you wonder why I don’t come round much. I’m the one with the problems today, so YOU have some fucking feelings.’
The waterworks start again. It gives me a little buzz of sadistic satisfaction.
‘Is that true? You don’t visit because I’m boring? I’m just good for a using when you need to escape? Well, to be honest with you, Ange, you got what you deserved.’
Emptying the last of the vodka into my glass, I swallow it and struggle to my feet.
‘If that’s your opinion, Caroline, then you can poke it. I come round here out of kindness, to listen to that shit? Naw, pal, I’m not wasting my life humouring you.’
Grabbing my coat, I leave her weeping on the settee. It takes so long to negotiate the intricately bolted door, though, she comes wailing through after me.
‘I’m sorry, Ange. It’s none of my business. Please don’t leave. I can’t stand to be alone any more. I’ll take those pills.’
Locating the final lock, I open the door with a flourish.
‘Sorry, Caroline, but it’s hard enough keeping sane without spending time with you. It’s best you don’t phone me again. I hopefully won’t be there much longer anyway.’
‘You’ll be punished for this, Ange, you will. Karma’ll see to it,’ she yells after me.
‘Fuck off, you fucking witch,’ I reply, as I stumble down the stairs onto the street.
It’s fucking snowing, I don’t believe it. Skittering towards the bus stop, clueless as to where to go next, I curse myself.
Brilliant move, girl, falling out with the only person in Scotland who was still talking to you. What an arsehole. No friends and 35 quid to last me the rest of my life. I should have stolen her fucking pills.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
JONI
AS JARVIS COCKER once sang, ‘… I feel as if my ’ole life ’as been leading to this woon mow-ment.’ The stars are lining up over Dalry. Why? Because John’s not going to jail, yee hah, the police have dropped all the charges. We found out this morning. Emma can’t give evidence cause she’s a spastic and Rosie didn’t grass, so they’ve nothing on him. That’s not it, though. It’s the fucking timing. In two day’s I’ll be able to shag him legally. Tell me that’s just a coincidence. Honest, it’s all predestined, even him not turning up the other night.
Poor Rosie’s not been so lucky. Her mum’s forbidden her to see him … arf, arf … or go near his house … zip-a-de-doo-dah. Goes to show, not all parents are useless. Sadly, as a result of this, she’s been hanging round me like a limpet all day. We babysat her wee brother in the morning, not that he’s any bother. He has a disease makes him fall asleep all the time, so it’s like looking after a teddy bear. Having to watch Richard Madeley and not X2, though, was very frustrating. And see when Rosie mouths off about her and John now, I want to laugh in her face. Being such a good friend, however, I let her ramble on and have a quiet wee smile to myself.
We went up town with my birthday money in the afternoon. I choried these beautiful Rennie Macintosh ear-rings out Fraser’s (I’m going posh), a waistcoat out Country Casuals and a pornographic red micro-dress from Monsoon. Now I have something to show for dad’s money, I can spend it on drugs for John and me. I was going to pinch a pregnancy-testing kit from Superdrug too but I didn’t want to have to explain to Rosie. I’m gimping to tell her about Rory, but I’d die if John found out. Virginity’s far too good to lose just once.
She was dead nosy about Monday as well. I said I crashed at an old pal’s up Fountainbridge. Mum had battered me again, so I had to get out. Unfortunately, this made Rosie all protective of me, dippit cow, which is why I’ve just managed to get rid of her. It’s fucking tea time and I still need to have a wash. John probably went out celebrating yonks ago.
Wanting in and out the house as quick as possible, I try to sneak in unnoticed. Dad shouts me through before I even make it to my room. Ignoring his and-today’s-catastrophe-is … face, I show him my plunder. He’s so pre-occupied, he doesn’t even pretend to think the dress is a top. It’s worrying.
‘Joni, love, Mum’s lost her job.’
Why am I being bothered with this information?
‘So? I thought you were chucking her out anyway.’
‘Well, that’s a bit difficult now, isn’t it? If she’s no earning, y’know …’
Oh, so that’s it, is it? Dad craps out again. The rest of us have to suffer ’cause he’s such a wuss. Trailing me through to the kitchen, he hovers as I slug Diet Coke and it fizzes over my face. As I blow juice down my nose, onto kitchen roll, he tells me Jake’s been in an accident.
/> ‘He apparently fell down stairs, but I dinnae believe him. Your mother’s got something to do with it. There’s nothing surer.’
Aye, fucksake, so does she have to kill one of us before he chucks her out?
He wants me to got through and be nice to Jake but 1) that’s impossible and 2) I’m already OD’ing on this fucking dump. He tries the do-it-for-daddy gaze that worked when I was five but now just makes me feel uncomfortable. Staring down at Jan to avoid it, I see her front paw’s lying in a puddle of blood. It’s so gross I let out a squeal.
‘Christ, she must’ve stood in that glass your mother smashed. I left it for her to clean up. Poor Jan, it’s all my fault.’
As I stroke her belly, she seems even more rug-like than usual.
‘Is she breathing?’ I ask, prodding, squeezing her bad paw, flicking her nose. Nothing. Dad lifts her eyelid, the pupil’s glassy and fixed. He grabs his mouth, then his chest.
‘Oh Jesus, no, not the bloody dog now.’
Running to the sink, I try to wash the deadness off my hands. Yuck, I’ve touched a minging corpse. When I turn back round, Dad’s gone the colour of washing powder.
‘It was probably suicide. I bet she deliberately tanned her paws,’ he wails.
I give him a reassuring pat on the back.
‘Dinnae worry, Dad. She’s better out of it. None of us walked her anyway. She’s probably been dead for weeks.’
‘Cheers, pal.’
Leaving him to mourn, I’m tempted to go and see what sort of state Jake’s in but I’ve been held up enough already. By the time I’ve washed my hair, put on make-up and convinced myself I’m not still stinking of lorry driver’s spunk, it’s seven o’clock. If Rosie’s already sneaked round there, I’ll fucking kill her. When I go back through, Dad’s stroking the dead dog like a demented person. Definitely time to leave.
It was snowing earlier. The sunset’s shining pink on the wet tenements, making them glisten in an amazing way. Tonight is the night, I can really sense it. Then when I’m half-way down John’s street, suddenly, like I’ve made it happen by concentrating too much, the stair door opens and he’s walking towards me. He clocks me and looks at the pavement. The fact that he’s right here, in the open, makes me feel like I’m doing a silly walk. As he draws level, I start smiling, waiting for him to look up, but he walks past. I think he’s trying to be funny, but he keeps going.
‘John … John!’
This just makes him walk quicker. Catching up, I touch his arm. He yanks away.
‘Fuck off, eh. It’s broad daylight for fuck’s sake.’
What’s wrong with him? He seems all angry. Maybe he thinks I stood him up the other night. I run ahead and stand in front of him.
‘Get out the fucking way, eh?’
‘What’s wrong? They’ve dropped the charges, is that no good? It’s my birthday on Friday. You winnae even get into trouble.’
He looks around, terrified, as if there’s maybe snipers between the double-parked cars.
‘What the fuck are you on about? You’re a stupid wee lassie. I’m no interested in you. Fuck off ’fore someone sees us.’
He tries to push me out the way.
‘I turned up the other night. I waited an hour and a half, St Thomas’s, that’s where you said, is it no?’
Suddenly his face is next to mine. As I pucker my lips, he whispers,
‘Look … whatever your name is, I’ve telt you, fuck off and dinnae come back. Or will I tell Rosie what a desperate little slag her pal is, eh?’
I’m in shock, as he nashes up the street. How’s he gone like that? She’s got round there first, I bet. Or does he think he doesn’t need me any more, cause they’ve dropped the charges? I bet the dirty bastard did do it to Emma. I’ll tell the police about him and Rosie. If I can’t have him, why should she? I’d go round and try to suss her out but I made up one of my lies about visiting Granda. I’m sick of the smug bitch, anyway.
I’m far too depressed, as it is, to even think about going home yet. Besides, the flat’s probably been hit by a Jumbo Jet by now, or Dad’s announced he wants to be a woman. When I left, I was on fucking cloud nine as well.
I wonder when Rory’s due through Edinburgh again. I’m so glad he was my first, and not that bastard, even if it was pretty rubbishy. If I went up the motorway, I might see him again. He’s maybe been up there looking for me since Monday.
I’ve just got to Ryries when a 26 whizzes past. As I wait, shivering, for the next one, an old jaikie staggers into the shelter, beside me. He’s got right schemie, junkie eyes and can’t weigh more than six stone. He keeps fidgeting in the pocket of his combat jacket. I think he’s going to pull a knife. There’s nobody else in the street.
‘Doin’ business, sweetheart?’
Not waiting for a reply, he bangs across the other side of the bus stop, pishes like Niagara Falls, then shuffles off. I’m thinking it was quite horny, till he lets out a wet, thunderous fart, dirty bastard. It puts me right off the boil. As he disappears back into the pub, it starts snowing again. I’m not even wearing a jacket. Who’ll pick me up hitch-hiking like this? They’ll think I’m on the run from the Andrew Duncan.
Marble-sized hailstones batter my face and bare arms as I run back round to Dalry. By some miracle, the bus appears right away. I go upstairs. It’s only five stops but I want to see if Twiggy and the rest of them are in the graveyard. By the time we go past it, though, there’s such a blizzard blowing I can’t even see the crypt. As if they’d be standing in weather like this. They’re not fucking desperate like me.
My upper body’s numb when I get in. Icy bits are melting down my back and cleavage. It feels like someone’s thrown grit in my hair. Getting a towel from the airing cupboard, I go through for a drink. Mum’s watching ER with an empty glass in her hand. Who’s she going to gouge tonight, I wonder? There’s an odd-shaped bin bag beside the fridge. Giving it a feel, I realise it’s Jan’s coffin and almost puke. I block it out with the fridge door. There’s no fucking juice.
‘Aw, Mum, where’s my Diet Coke?’
An ugly head keeks into the kitchen, and slurs, ‘Sorry, hen, ah didnae realise’ in the Wester Hailes voice it puts on when it’s pissed.
There’s only tonic and fucking vodka. Banging around jars and prehistoric vegetables, I try and knock the bottle, accidentally, onto the floor. Gorgon-features leans over, stinky-breathed, and slides it to safety. Nursing it against her, she sways back through to the living room. I glug milk out the carton, then try to make my escape.
‘Joni, sweetheart, has anyone phoned for me?’
‘I dinnae ken, why?’
Her face goes all pleading and crumply-chinned.
‘D’you hate me ashwell, Jo?’
‘Och, shut up, eh?’
Really desperate by now, I knock on Jake’s door. Fucking hell, it’s like he’s been experimented on by aliens. There’s vicious- looking red streaks across his face, his lip’s split, his left eyelid’s the colour of theartistformerlyknownasPrince’s bell-bottoms.
‘Fucksake, Jake, where were you when the car bomb went off?’
‘Dinnae wantie talk about it,’ he mumbles through a mouth that can’t open as well as it used to.
As I sit next to the bed, he shies away, like I’m going to attack him. I study his wounds. There’s something strangely deliberate-looking about them. I’ll have to sweet-talk him for a while before I get the truth out him, though.
‘See Mum’s job, eh? Has she said what happened?’
Being the bearer of great gossip perks him up. Mum’s boss apparently nicked 50 grand, she got questioned by the police for five hours, then sacked. It’s exactly the sort of far-fetched rubbish she used to come out with when she was drinking before, but I pretend to be interested nonetheless. It’s a shame. Jake’s face is a fucking mess.
‘Think she’ll get the jail? Ten years in Cornton Vale, that’d be cool, eh?’
He forces a sore smile. ‘Is she pissed again?’<
br />
‘Of course. And she’s used all my Diet Coke for mixers, greedy bitch.’
Trying to lean towards me, he grabs his side and groans. He tries to speak, but it’s so quiet I have to pull the chair in closer.
‘She’s got a boyfriend, Jo, I dinnae think Dad knows.’
‘Who, Mum? Fuck off!’
The poor boy’s obviously taken a bad blow to the head, he’s speaking in tongues.
‘Ssh, dinnae, really, Jo, we heard them shagging when I was down Sean’s.’
Bollocks! No way is my lardy mother getting more sex than me. It’s not possible.
‘Naw, Jake, it was probably the telly you heard.’
‘Honest Jo, I bumped into the guy. He was minging. He’s like some dosser she’s picked up when she was pissed. It’ll be barrie if she runs off with him, though, eh?’
We get the giggles. Mum goes past the door, trying to sing. It makes us worse. I’m probably in shock.
‘Shame about Jan, eh?’ he sniggers, ‘… d’you think Mum murdered her?’
‘Dad said it was probably suicide.’
We both must be in shock. Something Dad said’s actually amused us. We bitch on about Mum’s mystery man before eventually coming to the conclusion that someone’s carried her home from the pub and she’s raped them. It feels weird to be getting on for a change. You forget the people you live with must be going through all the same shit. At ten we watch Wayne’s World 2 on the portable. It’s crap but it’s good to lose myself in something stupid and block out real life, even for a wee while. Dad sticks his head round the door when he gets back from the hospital. He stayed two hours after visiting finished, probably for the same reason hitch-hiking in a blizzard seemed like a good idea earlier. I’ve a bizarre urge to ask him to join us, but that would just be sad. He doesn’t bother us long anyway. Mum’s crashed on the settee, so he’s going to nab the bed while he has the chance. Poor bastard.