Donor, The

by FitzGerald, Helen

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘What kind of chocolates do you think he’d like on his pillow?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is the Glasgow Hilton.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ she said.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she lied, like daughter like mother. ‘Would you mind leaving him a message? Tell him I’m coming home. I’ll visit him next week.’

  After that, Cynthia gave Preston his first shot at a bong. He took one puff, sat back and said, ‘I see. It feels like someone has stuffed your head with cotton wool then put you in warm water. Yes, I can feel the sensation. Out of control. Other worldly …’ He paused. ‘I can’t really see the attraction.’

  Then Cynthia gave Preston his first shot at a woman.

  They were in a small hotel room on the outskirts of Cairo. There was only one room – ‘Don’t worry, I won’t eat you!’ Cynthia had said, knowing she wasn’t lying. She wouldn’t eat him. But he would most certainly eat her.

  ‘Have you seen one before?’ she asked, assuming the answer would be no. Despite his stunning looks, she had never met such a doofus in her life.

  ‘Online,’ he said. Vaginas were a bit like dope to him. Didn’t really understand the attraction. Indeed, he found some of them downright ugly – outies that you might feed a peanut. However, he felt he should become familiar with them, and with sex, in the same way that he’d felt he should try olives aged nine. He was glad he had tried the olives. The bitter mites had tingled a reminder in his mouth for an hour and a half afterwards.

  Cynthia dropped her hippy skirt to the floor and stood before him. She had no pants on. Preston stood and stared at her, not moving.

  ‘Why do you shave?’ he asked. He was trembling a little. It was more intriguing than olives.

  ‘It’s nicer,’ she answered. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘Not sure. I’d have to see it hairy to make a concrete decision.’

  ‘You’d have to wait a week or two.’

  ‘I don’t have a week or two,’ he said. ‘May I touch?’

  ‘I insist.’ Cynthia was turned on by his politely freakish behaviour. It made everything Preston was looking at swell.

  He moved closer and brushed his index finger against her shaved pubic bone. It felt like a prickly elbow. It didn’t scare him. But he had no compulsion to merge with it in any way.

  He stood, walked to the basin, and began washing his hands.

  ‘You can kiss it if you like,’ Cynthia said, slightly annoyed. What was he doing?

  ‘Thank you, but no,’ he said, drying his hands. ‘I’m tired. We have a big journey tomorrow.’

  Cynthia put her skirt on. She had never been humiliated like this before, the little shit. She’d tell Heath. He’d be very angry.

  *

  The following day they boarded the flight to London. Preston flipped the pages of a book on the journey.

  ‘Why don’t you actually read it?’ Cynthia asked, trying hard not to notice that the towns below were shaped exactly like syringes.

  ‘I am,’ he said.

  ‘Crap.’

  ‘Test me,’ he said, handing her the book. It was called Understanding Power: The Indispensable Noam Chomsky.

  Cynthia read the first page of the first chapter. It took her several minutes. She couldn’t understand any of it, wouldn’t manage to frame a question if he paid her.

  ‘What’s the first line?’ she asked.

  ‘Noam Chomsky is Institute Professor in the Department of Linguistics and Philosophy at MIT, Boston,’ he said.

  Smart arse, Cynthia thought, reading the very first words. She handed him the book and looked at the syringe-shaped clouds. Uncanny.

  19

  Linda and Will hadn’t spoken for a fortnight. He said he’d call her when he got back from visiting Heath in Manchester, but he hadn’t. He hadn’t even been tempted, to be honest. After years of friendship, coupled with the occasional masturbatory fantasy, he was disappointed to find the actuality second rate and extremely painful. Instead of ringing her, he’d hidden himself inside the house – bar trips to the dialysis unit – and prayed that the following miracles would happen:

  That the private detective would find Cynthia.

  That Cynthia would agree to donate her perfect-in-every-way kidney.

  That he would do the same.

  And both girls would stop fading away as they were, the spirit and the life draining from their faces and bodies, and be all right.

  None of these things had happened and now, two weeks after the wooden spoon to balls incident, Will was unexpectedly excited by her phone message. Georgie had fled the house after hearing it on loudspeaker, taking his mobile with her. He didn’t have Linda’s cell number written down, so he dialled her home number immediately, planning to hang up if her husband answered. Luckily, he didn’t. She came over straight away.

  ‘About the other night.’ Will finished pouring Linda a large glass of red wine and handed it to her. He was about to ask her if being hit was a deal breaker. She misunderstood.

  ‘Oh no, you’re not getting away that easily,’ she said. ‘“About the other night! ” i.e., “Thanks for the shag, Linda, now fuck off to your wanker husband.” You left two weeks ago saying you’d call me and you never did. I’ve been at home trying to get rid of the arsehole, waiting for you to call. So let me tell you about “the other night”. I needed it. I wanted it. And I’m going to have it again. I’m not going away. I’m not going anywhere. And you’re going to hold me. I said fucking hold me, Will.’

  *

  After three more glasses of wine, Linda explained the farcical situation at home. Her husband, an arrogant pain in the arse prior to being caught red-handed, had taken to his knees. ‘Literally,’ Linda said. ‘He does everything on his knees. You should see him mowing the lawn. At dinner I can only see his hair. I had to tell the kids he’d injured his feet in a team-building canoeing accident.’

  ‘Does he know about …’ Will stopped short of the us word.

  ‘Fuck, no. This is too good. I’m enjoying it.’

  Will didn’t need to ask for an explanation – he’d been around housewives long enough to understand Linda’s way of thinking. She liked her life. She liked the house and the holidays and the fact that her husband was away most of the time and that she could slag him off non-stop to her friends. It suited her. A lover was icing on the cake. Will didn’t have the energy to work out his own thinking on the matter. He just wanted physical contact with someone.

  It wasn’t as bad as last time. No wooden spoons. But Linda was very demanding (On the chair, Still … Still … Edge of the bed … Still. Now you can move. Faster, faster. Out. Hand. Not there. No. Oh, you numbskull, there! I said there!) and Will really didn’t feel like being bossed around. During the sixty minutes of precisely choreographed acrobatics all Will could think about was how long it might take before she’d finish.

  Finally, Linda gave an ugly groan and slid off him.

  The clock was ticking, Will thought, wiping sweat and other fluids from his chest with a tissue. He’d give the private detective one more week, then move on.

  He was tired. He wanted to go to the toilet. If he asked her to leave, would she hurt him again?

  20

  When Cynthia and Preston arrived at Glasgow Airport, the rain moaned at them, as Cynthia recalled it had always done in this city – See you, the rain seemed to say, I wet you weakly with my constant dribble.

  ‘You have one hour and fifty minutes,’ she said to Preston. ‘You’re going to give me money for a room at the Marriott – I’ll check in as Cynthia Jones. Get a move on! You now have one hour and forty-nine minutes.’

  Preston had always managed the goals he set himself. He had never bought heroin, but it couldn’t be hard in Glasgow, could it? He asked the taxi driver to drop him off on the edge of the Gorbals, donned a baseball cap and left Cynthia to continue on to her city-centre hotel.
/>   Hmm, he thought, wandering past the new-build shops and eyeing each person he saw: single mother, car thief maybe, prostitute, social worker, social worker, social worker, kids dodging school … where were all the drug dealers? Perhaps this was the rejuvenated part – indeed, a high-rise apartment block had recently been blown to smithereens across the way, and privately owned flats lined several streets in the vicinity of the shopping area. He continued on. Drugs, surely, must still be readily available in the Gorbals, the famous, dangerous, dirty, poverty-stricken Gorbals.

  He made his way past the health centre, the housing office, the social-work office, and then into a two-block by two-block wasteland where most of the buildings had been demolished. Ha, he thought, spotting a group of young neds hovering in front of one of the remaining buildings. He smiled and made his way over to do some shopping.

  All five boys were around eighteen years old. The pack uniform was hooded cagoules and jeans. They spoke loudly to each other in rough accents Preston found difficult to understand. As he got nearer, he managed to recognise two words – gay and fucker.

  ‘Hello,’ Preston said, ‘and how are you all?’

  Another word this time: cunt.

  ‘I’m just wondering if you have any gear.’ Preston felt proud of himself. He was proving himself to be exceedingly street.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘Preston MacMillan,’ he answered, without thinking twice about the fact that he’d given his real name. These boys would never talk to the police. They were on the same side.

  ‘Whatchawanin?’ The tallest of the five asked.

  ‘Two bags of heroin, please,’ he answered.

  The boy gestured for Preston to follow him. As he did so, he realised they had all been standing at the front of the police station. Maybe they figured it was safer there. Or maybe they preferred not to have to walk too far once arrested.

  Preston and the tall boy walked past a beautiful old chapel, over more wasteland and into the foyer of a high-rise building. There were CCTV cameras in the foyer. He kept his head down, cap obscuring his face, but wasn’t too worried, really. Even if his face was visible, how would he ever be traced? The police had never photographed him or taken his fingerprints.

  The boy pressed a button, waited for the lift and they got inside.

  ‘So, have you lived here long?’ Preston asked as the elevator elevated at snail’s pace.

  ‘Aye,’ said the boy.

  ‘It’s nice to see they’re doing the place up,’ Preston said, now all out of chit-chat. He stared at the elevator buttons for several minutes before it finally crunched to a halt at the sixteenth floor. Maybe, Preston thought to himself, they made the lifts especially slow to help the unemployed fill their time. Or maybe it kept them off the streets longer.

  The boy had a flat to the left. It had amazing views and was surprisingly well furnished. He’s poor, Preston thought to himself, but his television is enormous. Maybe he stole it. Or maybe he’s rich from selling gear.

  ‘Here,’ the boy said, returning from the bedroom with two bags of heroin. ‘It’s pure uncut shit, best there is, so be careful. A hunnert an’ fifty quid.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Preston said, not realising that the street value of these bags was actually twenty pounds. Preston’s ignorance made the boy’s eyes twinkle. They twinkled tenfold as Preston took out his wallet, counted out £150 and handed it to him, another £500 and several credit cards visible inside the wallet.

  It was pretty quick, what happened next. When Preston deconstructed it later, it reminded him of a scene from Reservoir Dogs:

  Boy asks Preston to hand him the fuckin’ wallet.

  Preston enquires as to why.

  Boy says Just fuckin’ gees it.

  Preston says No.

  Boy takes knife from back pocket and points it at Preston’s neck.

  Preston tries to run away.

  Boy grabs Preston’s arm before he gets to the door and twists it behind his back.

  Preston says Ow!

  Boy presses knife against Preston’s neck.

  Preston, feeling the point of the knife pierce his skin, uses all his strength to turn around, kick boy in the nuts and grab the knife.

  Boy lunges towards Preston’s neck with strangler’s hands and vicious snarl.

  Preston realises the knife he is holding is now halfway inside boy’s chest.

  Preston says Sorry, oh God, sorry, it was an accident.

  Boy falls to the ground.

  Preston no longer holds knife. Knife is now poking out of chest of boy who is lying on floor making choking sounds.

  Then no sounds.

  Preston checks if boy is breathing, says Shit, turns and runs down sixteen flights of stairs.

  With two bags of heroin in his freshly murderous little hand.

  Maybe he’s not dead, Preston thought, head down.

  Or maybe he is.

  If he is, he thought, they would never suspect a seventeen-year-old boy genius from the trendy West End. And they had nothing on him, anyway. Some CCTV of his baseball cap perhaps, face obscured. Plus, he told himself, this was a disorganised crime, a gangland crime. He simply did not fit the profile. Walking determinedly towards the main road, Preston threw his cap in a bin and hailed a taxi.

  21

  As soon as I heard the message from the detective agency on Dad’s mobile I raced outside and returned the call. There was no answer on his mobile, so I left a message.

  ‘This is Mr Marion’s daughter returning your call,’ I said. ‘Call my father’s number as soon as you can.’

  I decided to have a drink while I was waiting.

  *

  It was a long wait. I woke the following afternoon in the back seat of a car. Some guy was half naked in the front. Who was he? He was old, twenty-five at least. While I was searching for my top, Dad’s mobile rang. I grabbed it from my jeans pocket.

  ‘Mr Marion?’ came that voice again.

  ‘This is his daughter,’ I said.

  ‘Georgie or Kay?’

  ‘Georgie. Where are you? Is she with you?’

  ‘She is, yes, but … it’s complicated.’

  ‘I know it’s fucking complicated. Tell me where you are.’

  ‘I’m in Room 234 at the Marriott, in town.’

  * * *

  The old half-naked guy took ages to work out how to drive his car. He was still drunk, I suppose. In the end, I kicked him out of the driver’s seat and did it for him. Twenty minutes later, I stopped at the front of the Marriott hotel and opened the car door.

  ‘Hey! You said you wanted my number,’ he said.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

  ‘David.’

  ‘I’m never going to fall in love with you, David,’ I said, slamming the door behind me.

  *

  I ran up to the second floor and along the horror-film corridor. Taking a deep breath, I knocked on room 234.

  ‘You?’ I said. I’d seen this guy before – at the Bothy. He’d stared at me all night when I was there with Reece. He still had his sunglasses on, the drop-dead gorgeous wanker.

  ‘Georgie? Don’t come in just yet. Let me fill you in first.’

  ‘Get out of my way,’ I said, pushing past him and entering the hotel room.

  There was no one on the bed. ‘Mum?’ I said, nerve ends scratching as I looked around the room.

  ‘Where is she?’ I asked the sunglasses guy.

  ‘In the bathroom. I came back and it was locked. I can’t get it open.’

  I tried the door. It was stuck.

  The movie star with the sunglasses was saying, ‘Oh no, I do hope she’s all right.’

  I had to kick it three times before it opened. And there she was, lying on the floor. I’d imagined her often. I’d even scanned one of our old photos onto the computer and downloaded an ageing device to see how she might have changed over the years, like they do for missing kids. On the computer, she looked the same as she had bu
t with lines. In real life, here, now, on the bathroom floor, she looked like an emaciated wretch. There was nothing left of the woman in our photo albums.

  ‘Mum?’ I said, moving towards her, kneeling beside her, touching her hand. It was an elderly hand, my mum’s; veined and liver-spotted and thin skinned. Still, I was holding it, and it felt glorious.

  ‘Mum?’ I said, touching a cheek that felt not so different from her hand. Too much sun, maybe. ‘Mum, I’m here.’

  I don’t know how long it took for me to notice the syringe beside her. Two seconds less than it took for me to notice the cloth tied around her arm.

  ‘Mum!’ I said more loudly, gently shaking her shoulders.

  All the while, the sunglassed movie star had been saying the same thing over and over. I heard it now. ‘Please tell me she’s not dead. Please tell me she’s not dead.’

  22

  ‘Is she breathing?’ the sunglasses guy said. He was passing on instructions from the 999 operator.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Turns out I was one of those dumb arses who cry in emergencies.

  ‘She says she doesn’t know …’ the guy relayed my words … and came back at me with an instruction. ‘Put your cheek against her mouth.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Put your cheek against her mouth and see if you can feel anything.’

  ‘I can’t feel anything.’

  ‘She can’t feel anything …’ He paused. ‘Okay, put her on her back.’

  ‘She is already.’

  ‘She’s on her back …’ he said to the operator, listened to the response, then said, ‘Check there’s nothing in her mouth.’

  I put my finger inside my mother’s mouth. It was warm. That’d be good news, wouldn’t it? ‘It’s warm!’ I said.

  ‘Is her tongue there?’

  ‘Yes.’ I thought it was a stupid question but felt it best to answer. Where the hell else would it be? Of course later on I realised they wanted to know if she’d swallowed it.