Donor, The

by FitzGerald, Helen

  It had been the most exhausting and upsetting day of my life. When I got back to the safe haven of my home, the last thing I needed was more crap. The fucking bully. I don’t even know what I said that annoyed him so much that he whacked me on the head.

  I was in front of the St Enoch Shopping Centre now. It was after midnight and the town was deserted bar the two of us. I’d been drinking since the slap, my usual response to stress, but the alcohol had merely numbed me a little, like it does when you have a cold. I needed something more. As I heard Preston’s footsteps on the concrete behind me, I wondered if I might be able to have some fun with this. Hell, I needed some fun.

  My mission to find love! It was at times like this that I turned to my newfound diversion from the facts of my life, which in twenty-four hours had increased by three million to the power of crap.

  ‘Reece? Sorry to wake you,’ I said. ‘But I need to talk to someone.’

  I walked all the way to his flat in the Merchant City. It was in one of those old warehouses that people think are trendy but are actually just old warehouses filled with poxy boxy flats. His was on the first floor.

  I deliberately left the foyer door open, gently wedging a rock under it with my foot. On the first floor I snibbed the front door of Reece’s flat before walking into the living room as he had instructed me to do over the intercom.

  He had everything that I wanted ready: some more of that powder we’d had at the Bothy before it made me walk into a pillar, and his dick, somewhere under those godawful pyjamas.

  I ingested the powder first, but my anger and adrenalin diffused it, as it had the alcohol.

  ‘I need some more,’ I said. ‘That’s doing nothing.’

  Reece placed a small lump on his glass coffee table and cut at it with his Bank of Scotland card. He lined it up neatly for me and handed me a sawn-off straw.

  ‘Do you mind if I get into something more comfortable?’ he asked. I almost exhaled all the coke with my laugh. ‘What could be more comfortable than those things?’ I said, looking at his blue flannelette number.

  ‘I’ll just be a minute.’

  I leant back into the sofa – black leather, of course – and closed my eyes. Where was Preston? Had he come in yet? Where would he hide? I focused: my ears are bionical, oh yes they are, and they will seek you out!

  Some whistling from the bedroom: Reece.

  A tap dripping in the kitchen: the tap.

  Nothing …

  Nothing …

  Whistle …

  Tap …

  Ah, there … amongst all that, a tiny cough. I waited … hggh hgggh, again … muffled this time. He’d probably put his hand over his mouth.

  I waited, then opened my eyes and looked in the direction of the cough. Ha-ha. It had come from the hall cupboard, just outside the living room.

  ‘Reece? Are you okay? Are you going to be long?’

  ‘Just a couple of minutes!’ he yelled.

  ‘While you’re in there, I’m going to the toilet!’ I wanted to give Preston time to find a better hiding place. What would he see from the hall cupboard?

  Alas, no wee. And while vodka and Coke and coke had done nothing to enhance my mood, it had certainly worked on my good health. Don’t close your eyes, G, I said to myself. Close your eyes, and you’re dead meat.

  I wiped, although there was no need to, and entered the living room again.

  ‘Reece!’ I said, ‘I’m back in the living room!’

  ‘Just a minute!’ he said. What on earth was he doing?

  Standing in the middle of the living room, I looked carefully at the possibilities. Was Preston behind the dark grey curtains? (Who would choose dark grey curtains? Did Reece not have enough dark grey in his Glasgow life already?) I couldn’t see a bulge … maybe Preston had decided it was too obvious.

  I tiptoed over to the sofa. Perhaps he was lying behind it. But I didn’t want to know for sure so I didn’t peek. Not knowing added to the excitement.

  Oh, and there was a bamboo screen, separating the dining table from the sofa/television area. That’d be a good choice, I thought. Stand behind that. A bit risky, but there were clothes hanging over it so perhaps he could use those to disguise himself.

  Reece was back.

  ‘Oh my fudge, you look wonderful!’ I said. He had changed into a nurse’s outfit. Not the one he wore at work, mind – all sensible trousers and ironed shirt – but a PVC nursey number, with a zip all the way from the bottom to the top. The bottom only just hid his bits, which I feared may have been harnessed (or not) by a girl’s thong. At the top, he wore a padded bra, probably with chicken-fillet inserts to enhance his cleavage. He had patterned white stockings (the kind with a seam down the back of the leg) and white high-heeled shoes (the kind a bride might wear).

  On his head was a small nursey hat thing. Around his shoulders a stethoscope.

  ‘How are you feeling this evening, Ms Marion?’ Nurse Reece said. He had lipstick on. I have to admit, it suited him. Green wasn’t the right colour eye shadow for him, though. Perhaps I’d tell him one day.

  ‘I’m feeling very poorly,’ I said, still trying to decide on the whereabouts of my stalker. ‘I’m so glad you’re here to help me, nurse. But my eyes can’t cope with all this light.’ I dimmed the lights down so far that – yes – I could now see the reflection of Preston’s arm in the bay window. Not wanting Nurse Reece to see the same, I closed the grey curtains.

  ‘What do you think is wrong with me?’

  ‘I think you need a big cock in your cunt,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘Is that it? All that work and that’s it? Straight onto the cock-in-cunt thing?’

  He lifted the dress a little and there it was – the cock that he intended for my cunt.

  ‘Oh yeah, baby.’

  ‘Oh yeah, baby?’ I repeated. ‘Goddam it. Get down.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sit on the sofa. You’re a bollocks nurse.’ I slowly unzipped the dress all the way and took it off him. He looked hilarious dressed in nothing but stockings, heels and a hard on.

  ‘Let me be the nurse,’ I said. ‘Kneel on the couch and do as I say.’

  *

  I do hope Preston appreciated all the effort I made. Bum high in the air, pointed right at his screen hiding place. Careful unveiling, not too much, not too soon. Cunning use of filthy talk that he could easily interpret as being just for him. Heels on no matter how tricky the position. After Reece had reached his Code Red! Code Red! Code Red! I locked myself and Reece in the bathroom long enough for Preston to exit the flat.

  ‘I thought you said you were never going to fall in love with me,’ Reece said as he lathered his pubic hair into a Santa beard. Mascara and green eye shadow was running down his chubby cheeks.

  ‘I won’t,’ I said. ‘Have you seen my pants?’ God, Reece was gross naked. He wasn’t overly fat, but he had man boobs. And his dick had shrivelled into the inch of gathered foreskin. Blah. I had to leave, forget the pants.

  I would never fall in love with Reece.

  No, but I might just do so with Preston.

  29

  If this was a film, Will thought, it would be a legal drama. He would be the logical, no-nonsense solicitor. He would gather evidence methodically and list his findings succinctly. Like most films, it would also be fiction, of course. He wasn’t doing this for real. He was just drunk. Oh, and stoned. ‘Photographs!’ he said out loud. I’ll start with those.

  The dope was stale, but it had added a little something to the two bottles of wine he had now finished. He walked as a lawyer might towards the glass-fronted cabinet in the living room and ran his finger along the album spines as a lawyer might search for the correct legal journal in a law library. ‘Ah, that’s the one! Georgie … Aged One to Five. Kay, Aged One to Five.’

  He returned to his desk, moved the table on his notebook to one side and opened the first page of Georgie’s first photo album.

  She didn’t smile much
. As a newborn, she screamed non-stop. Of the ten photos of her aged nought to one, she smiled in only one photograph. Will didn’t remember the moment – she was around twelve months old, sitting on the green sofa in the back room, pointing at something and grinning. What had made her smile? The outside world? The television? Her mother?

  Things looked even worse from two to five. Not crying, but serious to the point of angry. A downturned mouth, yes, a scowl, in every shot (even the one on the beach in Largs!), and watery eyes, as if she’d just stopped crying or was just about to start.

  Hmm, what an unhappy kid. Was she born like this? Are some children born miserable?

  He needed another bottle of wine before he could write the words. In the slim kitchen unit beside the cooker, there was one bottle left. He’d been drinking red, and this was white, but what the heck. He opened it, filled his large red-wine glass and returned to his desk with a weak-looking ‘rosé’.

  He also needed the kind of pen a solicitor in a legal drama might use. Not a bog standard biro, or the one with a fluffy green feather thing on top that Kay had given him aged seven, but a serious pen. There it was, the Kingsley Cosmopolitan Teal Green-Chrome Ballpen which Georgie had given him last Christmas (to ‘Write an Oscar winning thriller!’). She hadn’t noticed that he never wrote longhand. Who did nowadays? He’d never taken the pen out of its black case.

  ‘My first note in the case against Georgie Marion,’ Will garbled, ‘is …’

  In the GEORGIE/CONS column he wrote Born unhappy and stayed that way.

  He should have written a pro first, he realised, guilt making its way through his drunken lawyerlyness. He quickly added Cute under her PROS.

  ‘Now, let’s look at exhibit two, Kay Marion, aged zero.’ There she was, page one of her first photo album, smiling in the hospital just moments after she exited that woman’s body. People say newborn babies don’t smile, but look at that. No two ways about it.

  Page three: laughing aged two as Rudolph the hamster crawls up her arm. Four: Giggling aged three on the swing in Rouken Glen Park.

  Five: Grinning aged five at the dance rehearsal.

  Will refilled his glass and added under KAY/PROS: Born loving life and stayed that way.

  He knew he should write some cons and he did think very hard about this – as a lawyer would – but from the evidence on offer, there was nothing negative to say about Kay aged nought to five.

  *

  It was around three in the morning when he moved onto the next section. Had he ever been so off his head? Perhaps with Si in his late teens, when he rode his bicycle into an obnoxious man outside the pub and pedalled home to vomit into the laundry basket. What was he doing? Ah yes. New evidence was necessary for the five to ten section. It took him an hour of singing to Blondie’s ‘Denis Denis’ to work out what.

  School reports, in the filing cabinet, under S.

  Georgie’s comments were similar throughout her early school years: Disruptive. Distracted. Poor attention span. Seems uninterested. Enjoys more creative work. Should work harder. Trouble socialising with other girls.

  Kay’s were also consistent: Excellent work. Progressing well. Works hard. Always interested and motivated. Gets on well with classmates.

  It was becoming difficult to write legibly, but Will reminded himself that court cases are difficult and perseverance is the key to success:

  GEORGIE/CON: Finds it difficult to conform

  KAY/PRO: Wants to fit in and does

  GEORGIE/PRO: Creative

  He had written Creative last, once more a reaction to the guilt which was now niggling at him a little less than before. Why did Georgie find it so hard to fit in? School was always awful, uniforms were always stupid, organised activities were always a waste of her time, her friends were always talking about her behind her back and dumb bitches anyways.

  Oh God, he was so pissed.

  ‘Exhibits E and F for the girls aged ten to sixteen?’ He knew what he needed straight away. He ran up the stairs, tripping twice along the way, and went into Georgie’s room. He had to rummage through the two-foot pile of paperwork and make-up on her desk (not there), under her bed which was crammed with dirty clothes and presents he’d given her and she’d never used (not there), through her bookshelves which were lined with depressing literary fiction and books about the film industry (not there) and through her underwear drawer which housed inappropriately skimpy, lacy pants and bras and – oh God – is that what I think it is? Does she have one of those already? I thought it was only housewives who had those … Aha! There it is!

  … Her diary.

  Kay’s journal was sitting neatly on her desk. Will grabbed it and returned to his office with both books.

  He knew he shouldn’t. He never had. But this was life or death. Oh no it wasn’t. This was nonsense. Drink some water. You can’t even stand up.

  Will staggered to the bathroom and put his mouth under the tap. He glugged at the water for several minutes. He splashed his face. He looked in the mirror. ‘This is life or death. They could both die. Or one of them might die.’ His drunkenness had now reached the crying point. They could both die. Or one of them could die. What would he do without them? Who would he be without them?

  Who would I be? Will fell to the floor and sobbed into the cold tiles. What would I do? Oh God, what would I do?

  What was he thinking? Why wasn’t he exhausting the other options before even thinking about drawing that stupid table in that stupid office? He lifted himself from the bathroom floor, wobbled back to the office – the water had sobered him only marginally – and fell into his chair.

  Oh look, Kay’s diary was on the desk. And it was open.

  30

  11 years old

  Dear Monty,

  When I grow up I’m going to get rich and give dad the money to make a movie. He’d make a great movie. Maybe a musical! Maybe I could be in it. I’m going to practise my acting and singing so I’m as good at it as Georgie. I’m going to save 10p out of my pocket money every week. I’ll put it in a special ‘movie’ tin.

  12 years old

  Dear Monty,

  Today I went to Loudoun Castle with Dad and Georgie. It was SO fun! I went on thirteen rides including the Black Pearl. Graham from second year was there and said hi to me. He is very good on the trombone. I wish Georgie had brought her jacket like I did. Then she might have been warm enough to enjoy it.

  13 years old

  Dear Monty,

  I suppose it’s normal for a teenager to be tired all the time. I don’t like being a teenager. I want my energy back.

  Graham from orchestra asked me out today. I said no. I like him but I’m too young for a boyfriend. Anyway, he’s a mate and I don’t want to ruin that.

  I am so lucky! My Dad is the best Dad in the world. And my sister! Last night she slept on the floor in my room and held my hand all night because I felt nervous about exams. All night! Sometimes I have to pinch myself. I have the perfect family.

  14 years old

  Dear Monty,

  I feel a bit drained today. Dad says I’m just doing too much as usual. I wonder if I should quit dancing. Or netball. Or flute. Or athletics. I don’t want to quit anything.

  I thought about her today. I tried my usual trick of stamping her out like a cigarette but it didn’t work. I wish I could ask her about what to do.

  All the other girls have done at least that and I feel left out. But I still don’t want to go out with Graham. It doesn’t make any sense to go out with him now.

  Georgie says if I don’t want to go out with Graham then I shouldn’t. But she doesn’t understand why I don’t want to. She’s so much cooler than me! I wish I could be more like her.

  I’m just going to go and talk to Georgie.

  15 years old

  Dear Monty,

  School is more fun than it used to be. The girls are much friendlier to me. I feel okay about being (reasonably!) clever. I think I’ll be a physiotherapist when
I grow up. I like working with people. And I’m good at biology.

  I’ve stopped thinking about her. It’s all too tiring. Graham has given up on me. I think he likes Sarah. Makes me feel really sad when I think of them getting together. Maybe I should’ve just gone for it. Y’know, I think I might be in love with him. Bethanay and Archie’s mum from round the corner fancies dad. It’s so obvious. She’s a bit mad in the eye (screams at her kids like all the time), but I kind of wish he’d just go for it. He needs someone.

  16 years old

  Dear Monty,

  I’m feeling pretty bad at the moment to be honest but a girl from the other unit got the call yesterday. She waited five years and now she’s got it. So it can’t be so bad can it? It’ll all be okay, won’t it?

  Let it all be okay.

  Will smiled as he wrote. She was a darling, this girl. An uncomplicated, kind darling. And what about Georgie? What a lovely sister she’d been. Had he not noticed this? She was always looking out for Kay, always there for her – she held her hand all night! Oh!

  GEORGIE/PRO: A wonderful sister

  KAY/PRO: Uncomplicated, kind darling

  KAY/PRO: Has loads of interests – dancing, netball, flute etc.

  KAY/PRO: Loves a boy called Graham (first I knew of it!)

  KAY/PRO: Ambitious and hopeful – wants to be a physiotherapist

  KAY/PRO: Loves me

  Kay loves me, Will thought. And Georgie is a wonderful, kind, sister. He was a lucky man to know them both.