Born Free

by Laura Hird

  Remembering I’ve fags from the pub last night, I bring them through. Hailstones ping off the window as we smoke. I think about John shouting at me and imagine standing on a snowy Glasgow Road in a t-shirt. For once, it almost feels good to be home.

  Jake, dizzy from two Marlboro in quick succession, suddenly comes clean about his injuries.

  ‘No, Jake, you’re mixing him up. My Daniel hangs about with Twiggy and that lot. He wouldnae do that.’

  ‘It is him, Jo. Hairy guy, looks like Robbie Williams hit with a frying pan.’

  This is a pretty accurate description, it must be said.

  ‘… Shug was the one belted me, though. He slashed ies an aw.’ He lifts his jumper; there’s a cross-shaped scratch across his belly. It’s not that deep but it’s still a fucking sick thing for anyone to do. ‘… Daniel had to pull him off me. He was about to cut my throat.’

  ‘Wait a minute, so Daniel actually saved you?’

  ‘Nah, Joni, he was punching me an aw. And he’s done it before. Mind the other week when my nose was mashed? He done that.’

  I still can’t quite believe we’re talking about the same person. How many illusions can you have shattered in one day?

  ‘But why? D’you owe them drug money?’

  He gulps down a mouthful of saliva.

  ‘Actually, I thought you’d got him to do it.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Y’know, got him to batter me cause I piss you off. I dinnae ken.’

  I’m stunned he could think such a thing.

  ‘Honestly, pal, I ken I can be a cow and that, but, Jesus. He doesnae even know I’m your sister. Have you told Dad?’

  ‘Aye right, he’d go radge. It’d make it worse.’

  How could he think I hated him that much? Is that the impression I give to folk? I feel like such an awful bitch. We watch the rest of the film in silence. I’m feeling too ashamed to speak any more. I only realise it’s over when the titles come up.

  ‘Joni?’

  I can’t look at his battered face again. I’m starting to feel like it’s my fault, somehow.

  ‘… will you sleep in here tonight? I’m not being funny or that, but, like, will you?’

  I’m feeling so guilty, it’s almost a relief.

  ‘If you want. D’you feel strange, like?’

  ‘Nah … just sort of scared. I dinnae really want to be on my own, y’know?’

  I force myself to look at him and smile.

  ‘You’re a sap? Is that what your telling me?’

  ‘Naw, Jo, seriously, aren’t you a bit scared, too, like?’

  What, because everyone I know is either a bastard, a paedophile or a sadist?

  ‘Aye, I suppose I am.’

  Chapter Thirty

  VIC

  TWICE THIS WEEK I’ve woken up here, both times with a hard-on. Either God’s trying to tell me to chuck her out and reclaim the bed or the settee’s playing havoc with my dick. I attempt a wank but Angie’s bleary-eyed face keeps intruding in my fantasy and puts me right off. Marriage, eh, you can’t beat it.

  Thank God I’m on special leave. It’s usually reserved for deaths in the family, rather than the death of the family, but I’m definitely not up to taking 70 strangers for a drive. Plus, my hair’s coming out in chunks. It’s like I’m moulting for Jan. Whether this is linked to the numbness in my hands is anyone’s guess. Smoking like a beagle can’t help. I’ll be in the Royal with Dad before you can say twenty Regal King Size.

  First task of the day – burying Jan. The kitchen’s buzzing with bluebottles as it is. Attempts to roister support for a small service round the weeds prove fruitless. In the end, the congregation consists of Jan, me and Matt Munro via the ghetto-blaster. Still convinced Angie was responsible for her death, I mark the grave with a customised cocktail stirrer. Clicking on the tape, the singingalonga ‘Born Free’ gives me such a sense of empathy with the deceased pet, I don’t want to stop. Half-way through the first verse of ‘From Russia With Love’, though, the window opens and Joni yells out, ‘Dad, please, that’s horrendous!’

  When I get back upstairs, the beast has surfaced and looks sheepish. Offering me a coffee, she tells me she’s going to see Sean’s mother this morning before launching into a prolonged drone about work and what a devious shit her boss was.

  ‘Should I try and contact him? It’s doing my head in not knowing.’

  ‘You’ve just called him every bastard under the sun. He got you sacked, for God’s sake. You’d only end up battering someone.’

  Still no reaction. In fact, if truth be told, she looks utterly bereft. Could it be remorse or is she running low on cash? As if in answer to my question, she asks me to take her to Somerfield. I’ve got the credit card, see. Trust it to be the guy who took her shopping did the runner. Remorse indeed.

  I get my ear bent about him all the way to, round, and back from the supermarket. Every few sentences, she asks my advice, then immediately disregards it, despite the fact I’m trying to agree with her. I only let the credit card out my sight once, for her to get fags, but I notice she buys a sneaky bottle of vodka when she’s at the kiosk. Stoli as well. Only the best for my dearest lady wife.

  When we get back, I put the shopping away as she makes a home-made quiche. I intend hiding the bottle but it must be in her bag. A bunkerful of floury utensils are left for me to wash but I ignore them. When the quiche’s ready, she tries to make us sit round the special-occasion table, like the Waltons. It’s a farce. Jake’s too sore to get up, Joni refuses to be in the same room as her, so it ends up just me watching her weep on her salad. Still, if it delays her first drink of the day. One minute at a time, sweet Jesus.

  In the afternoon, I go up to the hospital to see Dad. He’s not in bed when I arrive, but I assume he’s just away for a dump. Pinching a few chunks of the Dairy Milk I brought up last night, I thumb through an ancient People’s Friend. Shit, I meant to bring up Killing for Company for him. When he’s not back by half-three, I check with the nurse to see if he’s away for tests. She has a perplexed whisper to the sister then tries the toilets. He’s not there. The sister studies the case folder at the bottom of his bed.

  ‘No, he’s not down for anything today. The consultant’ll be round to see him in the morning.’

  The nurse looks in the side wards as I check his locker. Apart from a bottle of barley water and the half-eaten chocolate, it’s empty. I don’t believe this. How can they just lose a patient? A purple woman in the next bed, who look disconcertingly like Michael Winner, yanks off her oxygen mask.

  ‘Are you … ach … Bobby’s boy … ach?’ She looks terrified to be breathing unaided.

  ‘Bob Scott, aye, he was in this bed.’

  A few more laboured gasps. I’m scared she’s going to peg out.

  ‘Ach, ach … he’saway … ach, today … ach.’

  The sister’s face takes on a stony, Nurse Ratched scowl.

  ‘You’re wrong, Mrs Frazer, he’s not been discharged.’

  The old girl’s dying to have a go at her, but only manages to splutter out that Dad’s gone and she doesn’t blame him before convulsing back into her mask. The sister looks relieved. I leave her to it. I’ll report her once I find him.

  Scanning bus stops on the way to his house, they’re all ominously Dad-less. Every time an ambulance goes past, I shit myself. I spend my life doing mercy missions like this. I’d be better off in Rwanda. Having been flashed by a speed trap on Calder Road, I double-park outside the flat and let myself in with the spare key.

  ‘Hello, son, there’s a nice bit Wensleydale in the fridge, if you fancy.’

  I collapse onto my knees.

  ‘Jesus, Dad, you cannae walk out the hospital. You should’ve told someone.’

  ‘I told the randy old bird in the next bed.’

  ‘Y’know what I mean, a nurse or something.’

  ‘No, no, no. They need the beds. That wee Irish lassie hadnae had a break for eighteen hours.’
/>   Peeling melted cheese off a bit toast, he nibbles it.

  ‘Come on, we’re going back up.’

  ‘Off you go, stop fussing.’

  He’s perky enough, despite the bruising, but you can never tell with Dad. He walked to Sighthill and did a day’s work once, after he’d had a stroke – five minutes after. They didn’t even realise till he went for his check-up three weeks later.

  ‘I better phone. See what they think.’

  ‘Please, son, I dinnae want to fall out but I’m no going back there. No to be treated like some half-witted old fart.’

  I’m suddenly cuddling him, breathing in a mix of hospitals and Brylcreem.

  ‘Godsake, Victor, what is it? Are you in trouble?’

  I look at his discoloured face. ‘Would you tell me if you were in trouble, like?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  When I phone the hospital, the mercenary bastards have already given the bed to someone else. They tell me to take him to out-patients tomorrow, instead. Dad’s over the moon, even more so when the door goes and it’s Mrs Moodie.

  ‘I just can’t manage the bus with my bladder … Did they say all the times I phoned … I’d have been up every day if I could’ve got a lift.’

  Dad’s glowing. Quite how that old baggage can make anyone glow is beyond me. Telling him I’ll pop back with some shopping in the morning, I leave before she starts. Besides, they seem like they want to be alone. Yuck.

  Only two hours have passed when I get in but Angie’s already half-way to oblivion.

  ‘Sit with me,’ she wails, grey-faced from the cloud over her head. ‘I’m lonely.’

  ‘What d’you expect? That stuff puts you on a different planet.’

  Stumbling over to the unit, she pours a huge vodka.

  ‘Come onto my planet then. Please Vic, jus’ once, drink with me. That’s how we dinnae talk. You’re always sober.’

  Seeking refuge in the kitchen, she follows with the glass.

  ‘Stop it, Ange. If you want to talk, just talk. What d’you want to talk about?

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So what are you on about?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I make a coffee. As two drinks are awaiting her attention, I don’t ask if she wants one. When I go back through, she launches herself onto the settee beside me. A spring boings. The feel of her arm touching mine sickens me. Hiding behind the Scotsman, I long to be driving a bus full of screaming weans in a massive traffic jam.

  ‘I’ve alienated myself from all my friends for a man who cannae fucking talk to me,’ she mumbles.

  As I’m incapable of speech, I merely rustle the paper.

  ‘… say something, you big, dumb bastard.’

  Crumpling the paper into a ball, I stand up and lob it at her.

  ‘You want to talk? Really? OK, I’ve just been all over Edinburgh trying to find Dad. He did a runner from the hospital. He’s 68 but he doesn’t sit round pissing it up, whingeing cause he’s isolated. It’s the drink isolates you, girl. Can’t you see that?’

  She’s smiling. The sick bitch is actually enjoying this. I slam the living-room door and stand with my hand against it, as if anyone would want to come in.

  ‘Listen, Angie, I’m sorry I’m so boring. Sorry I’m no a thief, or an alkie, or the sort of guy’d land you in the shit, or batter his kids, or kill his dog …’ Uh oh, she’s gone crazy-eyed but I’ve started, so I’ll finish. ‘… but if we’re such a bloody chore to live with, why no just leave?’

  ‘Think I’ve no had my chances? The kids need a mother. Don’t flatter yourself I’m here for any other reason.’

  ‘Nobody needs a mother like you.’

  A jaw-rattling slap precedes a barrage of punches to my head and shoulders. As I try to defend myself, it stops as soon as it started and she grabs her coat.

  ‘Give me money.’

  ‘To get pissed?’

  She shrugs. ‘Or I could stay in and make everyone’s life hell. You decide, oh masterful one.’

  I pull out a 20 I’ve been hiding in my back pocket and chuck it across the room. With a catch worthy of Jonty Rhodes, she leaves. Collapsing onto the settee, dizzy with anger, I feel like there’s a tourniquet round my chest. This is it, she’s finally killed me. Joni appears, smiling and applauding. It’s like some surreal near-death hallucination.

  ‘Well done, that man, brilliant. Just like Tommy Lee and Pamela.’

  All I can do is pech and clutch at myself. Instead of the usual, ‘ocht, Dad’, though, she sits beside me and takes my hand. Her hand seems twice the size it was the last time I held it, but just being near her’s enough to make the pain subside.

  ‘Dad, I’ve something to tell you about Mum but I don’t know how you’ll react.’

  What could possibly shock me now? The phone rings and makes me jump. It’s Angus, the grandfather, from work.

  ‘Get over here pronto, Victor. This nutter’s refusing to leave till she sees you.’

  She? How the hell did she get up the Depot in five minutes?

  ‘My wife?’

  Angus guffaws, repeating what I’ve said to someone on the other end. They both have a good laugh.

  ‘Sorry, Angus, she’s rat-arsed. Can you get wee Melanie in the office to phone her a taxi?’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Here, Angus. She should remember the address, like.’

  He goes momentarily silent. ‘Jesus, Victor, you havenae told her where you stay, have you? She’s a head-case.’

  I’m not in the mood to have the piss knocked out of me.

  ‘Look, can I just talk to my wife?’

  ‘Fuck… no, it’s no your wife, son. It’s the gang-bang lassie. Last Bus Lil, ken.’

  What the hell is this? That lassie doesn’t even know me. I tell Angus this but he’s adamant I go over, before the Depot Manager turns up and starts asking questions. Joni’s waiting to be enlightened when I hang up. I don’t know what to say without it sounding sordid.

  ‘Is she at your work?’

  ‘No, dinnae worry, just something I need to sort out.’

  I try to get my shoes on before she has time to ask any more. My head’s mince.

  ‘Dad, about Mum …’

  ‘Tell me when I get back, sweetheart. Winnae be long.’

  By the time I get to the Depot, I’m convinced it’s a wind-up. I’m the last person that lassie should have a problem with. As I walk past the office, though, I see her through the glass panel. Three younger guys over by the bothy, break into ‘Annie I’m not your Daddy’. Gossipy Melanie gives me the wink, as I go in. The lassie stands up and offers me a clammy hand. I’ve done nothing wrong but I’m suddenly terrified of what she might say and don’t want her saying it here. There’s a full chorus going as I lead her out and down to the car. I’ve no intention of getting in but I don’t know where else to take her.

  ‘Look, hen, what’s this about?’

  Her voice is squeaky. All the dogs in the street can probably hear it, but I have to move reluctantly closer, to make her out.

  ‘I’m Caroline … Angie’s pal. She must’ve mentioned me.’

  ‘Uhm… aye.’

  Christ, Angie’s mad pal’s been shagging the drivers. What the hell? Have they been doing shifts? Has Angie made her do it, to get at me? I think I’m going to be sick.

  ‘… you just sounded so nice. Oh, I wish I’d never come now.’

  ‘Tell me what’s going on, PLEASE!’

  God, they’re watching us out the office window and she’s about to start greeting. What must this look like? After further prompting, she stammeringly tells me about Angie getting sacked. Is that it? Letting out a frustrated roar, I pull open the car door.

  ‘Dinnae worry about it, I already know.’

  As I try to get in, she throws herself against it, almost taking my fingers off.

  ‘No, no, you don’t understand. She was having an affair with the guy that stole the money. They’re planning
to run off to Mexico. I couldn’t stand to hear her laughing behind your back, Vic, you sounded so kind. Are you angry with me?’

  I’m not anything, I feel completely empty. My mind can’t focus. I don’t even know where I am.

  ‘Oh, God, you’re upset. That’s not what I wanted.’

  I’m crying my eyes out but it’s relief more than anything – an impotent, black sort of relief. Giving me her number, she tells me to call if I need help with the kids. I shudder to think what she means, but take it anyway, to escape. As she slouches away, I feel clammy as her hand. My mind does a back flip to Angie’s monologue about her boss in the supermarket. Laughing behind my back? In my bloody face, more like. She had me feeling sorry for her but she was just twisting the knife.

  When I get in, the drink from earlier lies untouched on the table. It’s down my throat before I even think. Empowered by the warmth in my chest, I wonder if I should play her at her own game. Joni comes through as I’m pouring another.

  ‘Fuck, Dad, not you as well.’

  I’m so stressed I swally it down anyway.

  ‘It’s for courage, darlin’. She’s out of here tonight, dinnae worry.’

  I try to light a fag, but my hands are shaking wildly. Jake hobbles through in the clothes he was wearing when he had the accident. I’d forgotten all about that. I’m losing track of all the bashed faces. Jo jostles him to speak but, as he’s as nervous a wreck as me, she does the honours. They know all about Angie’s affair.

  ‘Repulsive, eh? Like, no offence or anything, but…’

  Jesus, am I the last person to find out about anything? How could she bring that bastard into our home? Do I sleep on the settee, so she can screw her boyfriend in our bed? Making them lock themselves in Jake’s room, I go back through to drink, brood and rehearse my lines.

  The door goes at half-seven. Behind it stand a male and female copper and my shoeless dishevelled wife. As she barges in, grizzling, the female tells me they picked her up in Morningside, causing a disturbance in a pub. She’s been cautioned. They’re leaving her in my custody till she’s sobered up.

  ‘Can’t you just keep her?’

  Neither seems amused. They leave her in my safe hands. She’s arsed my drink and is pouring another by the time I get through.