Improper Order

by Sullivan, Deirdre; Slattery, Fidelma;

  Eighteen months in prison. That’s 547 days, or even less. A drop in the ocean compared to what he stole from Mum. I know he didn’t mean to, but he did. And the thoughtlessness of it makes it somehow worse sometimes.

  It was so random. There was nothing predictable there, no pinpoint where you go, ‘Oh, well, maybe if she hadn’t done X, then Y wouldn’t have happened.’ Well not from Mum’s end. At his end X is drinking a feed of pints and vodka and deciding he was able to drive home. It was all his fault but he didn’t do it on purpose.

  ‘I didn’t mean to do it.’ Isn’t that what little children say? It shouldn’t be OK. I mean, it isn’t. It isn’t OK at all. I wonder does he ever think about killing himself? Because sometimes I do, and I do not have someone else’s death upon my conscience. If I was him, I would have thought about it, I think.

  I don’t mean I seriously consider it or anything. Just sometimes it’s so hard to be alive and I get so little from it that I think maybe it isn’t worth the effort and I wonder how it would be to be dead. Like the way I sometimes fantasise about going on a long holiday to Marrakesh or somewhere, away from all my troubles. Not that I’d actually do anything about it. Or anything like that. I’m not really sure how I would do it. Mainly I just think about if it had been me instead of Mum.

  Because it would have been easier in the long run, I think, if it had been me. From my point of view, anyway. And probably from Fintan’s. He would still be living in his flat and going out with Hedda twice a week and she would help him through the whole being sad thing.

  And Sorrel, Méadhbh and Dave and Frank and everyone would help Mum through it too. And she’d be sad, but not forever broken, gone and lost. She’d miss me. But I wouldn’t have to miss her. I wouldn’t have to keep on being broken. Because when he ran her down he broke me too and I don’t know when I will be OK again or even if I’ll ever. And it’s hard. It’s just so desperately, desperately hard that I don’t know if I can even stand it any more.

  I looked at Brian McAllister’s house for a long time. It is nicer than the place I lived with Mum but not as nice as the house I live in now with dear old Dad. It looks kind of like a picture you would draw of a house when you are small: four windows in the front, white paint and a slopey roof that looks like a triangle. There’s a gate and flowers that aren’t daisies but are shaped like daisies and grass the exact colour of a green crayon. There is even a brown dog with a waggy tail and a round black nose.

  And four happy family members. Well, three of them and one bad man. I didn’t get to see them, but they were there. The fancy kitchen catalogue on the porch for Mrs McAllister, the little bike with glittery pink handlebars for Mac’s little sister. I think that she is seven, maybe eight. I wonder did she miss her dad when he was in prison? I wonder if they even told her what he did. That sort of thing would be a lot for a little girl to deal with.

  By the time I got home it was getting dark. Dad worked late, though. I was still in bed when he got back. He asked me if I felt a little better. I said A bit,’ because I am going to get up and go to school tomorrow. But I don’t feel any better. I’m worried that I’ll keep on feeling worse and worse and worse. I’m worried that dreadful things will happen over and over again to the people I love.

  So many random things can go so wrong. A stroke is just where this little tiny blood vessel in your brain bursts or gets blocked, then that’s it. You have a stroke. Pop. A car hits you. Pop. You get rejected and stop putting your socks in the laundry basket, bacteria collect and you eventually die of a disease brought about by your depression-induced filth. Pop. One night, maybe soon or maybe years from now, Joel walks home with his boyfriend and they bump into a group of thugs and get their heads kicked in. Pop. Pop. Pop.

  Everyone is a balloon, only filled with life instead of air, and normally, just normally every day, we are deflating slowly, puff by puff. But also there are pins in hidden places. And you don’t know where they are but they are shiny and they are sharp and they are coming. I can feel them coming. People say it is a terrible thing when parents outlive their children. But I would have been more than happy to be outlived by Mum.

  It isn’t me I’m worried about, or it is but only sometimes. It’s other people. Other people are the scariest things in the world. Especially if you love them.

  I looked at the McAllisters’ house long enough for it to mean something. I don’t know why I went there. I don’t think I was expecting it to change anything or make me feel better or more in touch with my feelings or somehow more balanced. So I don’t know why I am surprised that it didn’t do any of those things. All it did was give me an insight into the many challenges faced by the stalker. Like weather-appropriate clothing. And having to make a snappy yet unnoticed exit when a car possibly containing your stalking-victim pulls into the driveway. I don’t think they saw me. And it is not like they are my victims. If anything, I am theirs.

  Grandma Lily is doing much better today. Ciara texted me about it. She is happy because Lily is the only member of her family she can really talk to about worries or feelings or whatever. She feels kind of out of it and so does Grandma Lily, I suppose, having had to move away from her home and forgetting things that she was supposed to remember and being a bit of a burden to her children.

  Not to Ciara, though. They kind of get each other. I’m glad that Grandma Lily is improving. I don’t think there is room for any more death in my life. I’ve had it up to here with death and now it’s time for life and vibrant things.

  She’s cut the rosary down to five decades now. Ciara says them with her by her bed in hospital. She says it makes the two of them feel better. A decade is like a gang of prayers. Maybe ten, I think. I am glad it works for them.

  GRAVE

  After school today, Joel came over and he and I sorted out our LARPing outfits. Joel is going to be a fabulous vampire/wizard, in an all-black ensemble with a white streak in his dark brown hair and an old black cloak lined with red velvet that he borrowed from Kevin, who used to play a mournful vampire warlord before it got all mainstream. Joel makes a really good vampire. Mostly because of his sad puppy eyes, which are total windows to his lovely soul.

  I am wearing a medieval-type dress that belonged to Sorrel. I texted her to see if I could borrow it, and she got really into the idea of LARPing because she thinks it will ‘be an outlet for my creative energy’. She dropped it over and was having coffee with Dad when Joel and I got in from school. Well, Dad was having coffee. Sorrel was having Rooibos tea because she is on some sort of detox. Rooibos tea tastes rotten but Sorrel claims to like it. I don’t think she does.

  Dad was talking to her about Hedda, which is weird for him but not weird for her. Sorrel has this way of getting people to open up. Probably because no matter how idiotic they feel, she has been in worse situations. Also she’s really kind and warm and all the rest of it, but I think it’s her innate scattiness that made Dad talk about his feelings.

  Anyway, the dress is perfect. It has a medieval criss-crossy bit that narrows down to a point at the waist and it is long, but it has two slits up the side for high-kicking. I am going to be a warrior mage. So I get a staff/wand and two throwing daggers. I’m putting red streaks in my hair to match my dress. Although I’m going to pretend that they represent the blood of mine enemies.

  Joel is going to be a good vampire and my former lover. We used to be murderers together until he reformed. We plagued nineteenth-century Paris and Weimar Berlin, collecting occult artefacts and killing all who stood between us and what we wanted. And sometimes just killing people because we were strong and they were weak and the blood on our hands was more potent than the absinthe that flowed so freely through our hedonistic lives.

  Also, I have a raven as my familiar. He perches on my shoulder and, if I tell him to, he will fly over and peck your eyes out. His name is Roderick and I invented him so Roderick could LARP too.

  I am going to wear loads of eyeliner and be beautiful and compelling but also
incredibly ass-kicking and independent. No man can win my heart lest I rip out his own and use it in the course of my terrible magicks. I am the kind of mage ninja who does that sort of thing a LOT.

  I could maybe get into this whole LARPing thing. Which is worrying but also kind of exciting. I would like to have a hobby. I could get business cards saying ‘Primrose Leary, half-orphan and hobbyist’ typed up. I could hand them out to people who wanted to do pretend battle with me.

  I am going to wear fishnet tights, black cycling shorts and lace-up boots and tie my hair in two messy bunches with scarlet ribbons. Kevin is going to lend me the weapons. Apparently he has a lot of weapons. Dad has a Samurai sword but I can’t use that because you could actually hurt someone. The stuff you use LARPing needs to be not lethal. Because otherwise it literally would be all fun and games until someone loses an eye. Or an ear or whatever else.

  Liam and Anne are away for the weekend again. Fintan offered to take Joel and Marcus so they could use this voucher they got for Christmas before it runs out. Marcus is fun; he can actually hold a sort-of conversation now and he really likes Roderick because he begins with ‘rrrr’ like robot and is ‘spiky and climby’. This makes him sound like some sort of sentient cactus-ivy, but Marcus means it in a good way. And Roderick likes him too – he is nestled into the helmet bit of Marcus’s robot costume, which got taken off because we couldn’t hear what he was saying through the plastic. He was saying, ‘I want to be a robot vampire mage.’

  He is allowed to be one. We have made his costume. It is basically a robot with a cape, pointy teeth, a wizard hat and a wand. His is probably the best costume. We have even made up a story for him. He might be interested in turning evil, so he is on work experience with me, which means he gets to observe my battles and fetch me cold drinks.

  Marcus was enjoying helping out while dressed in his robot outfit. He was mostly talking in beeps, mind. But they were happy beeps. The beeps of a contented boy child.

  I wonder what my little brother or sister would have been like if Dad’s nefarious plan had worked out as he wanted. I get on well with Marcus but I don’t know if I’d like a proper baby-baby who cried at night and had to be changed and fed and everything like that. That would be annoying.

  But also maybe nice? If there was an extra sibling, maybe Dad and I would feel more like a family. Although I would have to keep my secret identity from Baby Hamilton lest he or she become embroiled in the terrifying world of the occult.

  Joel and Marcus are sleeping in the spare room, and Roderick looks too cosy in his helmet to move just yet. I hope he doesn’t wee. If he does, I’ll probably rinse it out and not say anything. It’ll surely be dry by morning.

  Joel snuck in after Marcus went to bed and we had a chat about Kevin and how cute Joel thinks he is and how it sucks that he doesn’t like boys, but how maybe he will in time because a lot of people don’t admit they’re gay, not even to themselves, for ages. So all is not lost. Joel can cultivate him as a friend and be there to swoop in sexily when the right time presents itself. He did not use the phrase ‘swoop in sexily’. He said ‘be there for him’, but he did a thing with his eyebrows that was pretty filthy, so I knew what he meant. I don’t know about Kevin. I think Joel would do better not to hope. Because hoping for something that might never happen can hurt dreadfully.

  Just look at Fintan and Hedda. Or me and Mac. Or me and Felix. Not that there is a ‘me and Felix’, even if he was a good listener that one time when we pretended to nurse Mr Cat. Stolen moments. The time after Marion broke up with him and we had a chat. The time he was wondering what that song I was humming in the sitting room was so he texted me. There are about three other such instances. Our love is a love that will stand the test of time.

  If my life was a movie, though, I would probably be a stone and a half lighter. Joel tried to argue with me about this, but it was cursory. I am a size twelve who has gone down to a ten out of misery, whereas actresses are normally size six. To be a size six I would need to lose a stone and a half (fact), possibly by amputating my liver. If I were in a movie I could be in a crazy love-you-till-the-end-of-time-but-alas-I-cannot-be-with-you relationship with Mac. This would suck because his dad killed my mum, and the thought of him and his family makes me feel physically ill. But it would have its advantages because of how easy on the eye he is.

  And the bragging rights! It would be like making out with Edward Cullen or Santa or something. Nobody could top it. Anyway, I don’t fancy Mac any more. But it would still make for a very good movie plot-line if I did. Joel and I spent ages imagining how it would go, and it didn’t make me sad or weird thinking about it, because the me we were talking about wasn’t really me, just a character with me-like traits that answered to my name and had adventures.

  Fintan came up to make us go to bed and to judge our outfits. He was quite taken with the concept of a vampire-wizard-robot. I should not be surprised about how immaturely he is dealing with this break-up. He is not a proper grown-up at all, in spite of his high-stress, high-paying job. Maybe he has to be such a grown-up at work that he uses all his maturity up? Does that even happen? It feels like it maybe kind of could.

  He made us go to bed. We didn’t mind. It was one in the morning and we wanted to be fresh-faced and buoyant for all tomorrow’s LARPings.

  MAGE: This is just another, cooler word for magician, wizard. Mages are really clever and have insane banks of knowledge. Like me, they are probably really good at table quizzes.

  WEIMAR BERLIN: A period between WW1 and WW2 when Berlin was particularly debauched. There were a lot of fishnets and eyeliner and people bursting into song about how much of a cabaret life was. Or so I’ve heard.

  EMBROILED: This sounds like an important step in the preparation of a fish dish. ‘First the fish should be properly embroiled and then …’ But do not be fooled! It does not have anything to do with cooking. It means to be involved in something, right in the middle of it. And it is normally not something good. You could be embroiled in the world of high-stakes gambling for example. But you couldn’t be embroiled in punctual attendance of business studies grinds. Unless it was a front for some sort of high-stakes gambling. In which case, I tip my hat to you.

  BUOYANT: All kind of floaty, like a buoy. This is a good feeling and may result in happy humming and impromptu little dances.

  THIS WORKS FOR WIZARDS (5)

  We alighted in a forest glade at eleven o’clock, a vampire and a warrior mage. Joel can survive in daylight because I used my magey powers to free him from the tyranny of the blasted sun. We came up with quite a backstory. Quite. A. Backstory.

  Kevin met us with a guitar case full of weapons, in full clerical garb. He was being Brother Shade, a Jesuit assassin. And looking rather … nice. Is it weird that I fancied him a bit? It is, isn’t it? It totally is. He was just so … mean. And also moody. And also devout. We did battle a bit. I took him down. It was pretty hot.

  There were about fifteen of us there, and Joel and I were the only new ones. The Game Master’s name is Jane and she’s a student. A Game Master is kind of like a ref in a football match in that they adjudicate if a dispute arises or if rules are broken, but also not like a ref in a football match at all because they actually get to decide what the rules are as well as enforce them. This system could readily be abused, but probably not by Jane, who is lovely.

  I wonder if I were to bribe her could she sort it so I could do battle with Brother Shade more often? I don’t fancy him when he is being Kevin. Well, maybe a bit, but it is only residual Jesuit Assassin hotness having rubbed off on him.

  We used the dice and our foamy wimp-swords to determine who won. It was me. I won! I am awesome. Although I get the feeling that I haven’t seen the last of Brother Shade and Joel, melancholy vampire and reformed badass.

  Other people I fought included

  A civil war soldier who was also immortal, Melmoth (real name Tomás)

  A courtesan and crusader for social justice who wa
s also a fairy (real name Caroline)

  Marcus, the wizard-robot-vampire-child

  Marcus won every battle he was in. None could defeat him. I think people were mainly being nice because he was so cute and well-behaved and genuinely thought that the activity we were engaged in was the coolest thing he had ever done in his life. Ever.

  Even though it kind of wasn’t, especially when people came by while walking their dogs as we were doing battle. Or when we got heckled by the homeless community. That sort of thing really takes the glory out of defeating a duo of warriors who have not been defeated since the dawn of time, and who are wearing a necklace of skulls. (Gloria and Mike: they are twins and they blame their LARPing on the way that their mother used to dress them both the same when they were small. This makes a weird kind of sense.)

  Marcus wants to be a were-doggy next time.

  ‘A werewolf?’

  ‘No. A were-DOGGY.’

  I bet Ciara would be AWESOME at making costumes for this kind of thing. Jane makes her own costumes, except for her corset, which she bought in a special shop in London that you have to be eighteen to buy stuff in. Oh, also excepting her boots. We are not shoemakers here. Unless you mean a shoemaker who is also a were-panther and who wields his cobbling hammer with the fury of a thousand red-headed stepchildren (Daniel, who may not have been taking the LARP as seriously as most of the others).

  I might ask Ciara to make me some sort of villainous hat. I know she’s not into nerdiness or drama classes — she HATES being put on the spot, because she’s so shy — but I think maybe she would like the design aspect at least. And LARPing does not happen often, at least not reasonably sized LARPs like this. They tried to do it once a month but it has ended up being about once every six weeks and sometimes not many people come and it’s harder to have fun with it.