The Weight of a Thousand Feathers

by Brian Conaghan

  ‘Gonna be one of these shit improv games,’ Lou says.

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘It’s our punishment.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe one of us should have sung,’ I say.

  ‘Fuck, no, I’d much rather be doin’ this.’

  ‘Right,’ Roddy bellows over the cynical chat. ‘Listen up, this exercise is all about thinking fast and using your intelligence to drive and advance conversation.’

  ‘Told you,’ Lou says.

  Does he wink?

  Roddy continues, ‘What you’re required to do is a simple exchange of dialogue –’

  ‘What’s the but?’ Harriet interrupts.

  ‘The but,’ Roddy says, ‘is that the first word each person speaks must begin with the next letter of the alphabet.’

  This is greeted with a chorus of ‘Eh?’s and ‘Don’t get it’s.

  ‘You all know the alphabet, don’t you?’ Roddy asks. Silence. ‘Good, that’s a relief.’

  ‘And?’ Tom says.

  ‘So person one here –’ Roddy taps me on the dome ‘– starts with letter A. For example, “Are you coming out tonight?” And person two –’ he rests his hand on Lou’s head: Lou flinches ‘– answers using letter B. For example, “Better not, as I’ve a ton of homework to do.”’

  People begin nodding their heads. Not Lou though.

  ‘Do you get it, Lou?’ Roddy asks.

  ‘I get it. I get it. Just don’t touch the head, dude,’ Lou spits.

  ‘Oh, pardon me for messing that hair of yours,’ Roddy says, looking around at some of the others. ‘We’ve a hairdryer in the back, if it helps.’ There’s some muffled laughter. Not from Lou, who looks bullish.

  ‘Just respect personal space, dude. That’s it, no big deal.’

  Everyone’s eyes are on the two of them. I’m rigid, trying to move only my eyes.

  ‘Well, I apologise for the invasion,’ Roddy says.

  ‘That’s what they all say afterwards,’ Lou says. God, I want to gasp, to open my mouth wide. I feel the need to be melodramatic.

  Roddy glares at Lou.

  Lou glares in return.

  ‘Well, as I said,’ Roddy starts, ending the glare-off, ‘this exercise helps with quick thinking. It also aids communication skills, and above all it’s a fun thing to do. Fun, remember that, Lou? Let’s embrace some fun tonight.’

  Lou nods sarcastically.

  ‘Fun it is,’ he says.

  ‘OK, you can start when you’re ready.’ Roddy walks away from us. I remove my heart from the blender.

  Tom and Cal dive straight in. The girls wave Roddy over for further clarification. Lou and me stare at each other. I shift up in my chair. Lou’s still got the dregs of annoyance in his eyes; his chest bobs and weaves through his denim. A bull on the comedown.

  ‘You OK?’ I ask him.

  ‘Yeah, fine.’

  ‘Don’t let Roddy get to you.’

  ‘It all just gets to you sometimes, don’t it?’ I can’t tell if he’s talking about Roddy, his mum or something else. Not a good time to press, I think.

  A flash of clarity arrives. Light-bulb moment. I could use this game to ask Lou what I’d been wanting to all along, help me beat the nerves. ‘Ready?’ I say.

  ‘Can’t wait,’ he says.

  ‘OK, I’ll begin, if that’s OK with you?’

  ‘Shoot.’

  I pause for thinking time.

  ‘Are you able to do something for me, Lou?’ I say.

  His eyes tighten, not understanding if the game’s started or if I’ve veered off course. I give him a look of encouragement. He shuffles himself up in his chair.

  ‘Being honest with you, dude, depends what that something might be.’ A little smile drifts across his face, suggesting that he’s well up for the game now. He’s mastered letter B. How hard can this be?

  ‘Can you get your hands on some stuff for me?’ I lean in closer. ‘Gear?’

  Lou guffaws.

  This isn’t what Bel and me had practised; in fact, it’s so far away from what we’d practised.

  Lou scratches the back of his head. My left knee shakes up and down.

  ‘Do I look like the type of guy you can pin labels on, Bobby?’

  ‘Everyone can be labelled, Lou.’

  ‘Fuck that shit.’

  ‘Grass or hash, come on, I know you can get me something,’ I say, through a wry smile. Lou grins too, which then becomes a snigger. He rubs his thighs, fixes his hair. Is he sussing me out? I think he is. His cheeks inflate.

  ‘Hash I can maybe get,’ he says.

  ‘In a few days?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, dude. Give me some time to process this shit.’

  The K is tough. I have to think hard. Lou seems to enjoy my struggle. I have something, but I’m a bit wary of saying it, split between embarrassment and fear.

  ‘Come on, dude, I wanna get outta this place tonight.’

  I swallow saliva and blurt it out:

  ‘Kisses are coming your way if you can,’ I say. Lou’s smile vanishes. ‘No, no, metaphorical kisses, I mean.’

  ‘Let me ask my man and I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Maybe you can give me his or her number when we get out of here?’

  ‘Not going to happen.’

  ‘Or maybe not.’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Quite a relief, you helping me out,’ I say, puffing my own cheeks out.

  ‘Right, let’s talk how much you want and how much you wanna pay,’ Lou says.

  ‘Seriously, I know next to nothing about these things, but I am thinking maybe enough for three or four joints.’

  ‘That can be arranged my friend, thinkin’ five per joint.’

  ‘Unless you do mates rates, that is. Do you do discounts for friends?’ I ask cheekily.

  ‘Very big balls you’ve got there, Bobby.’

  I giggle. ‘Would you roll them for me as well? I wouldn’t know how to. Please?’

  Lou shakes his head at my brazenness. Or my very big balls. He’s struggling with the letter X. The torment of searching for an appropriate word is scratched all over his face. Until, that is, Roddy interrupts with a loud, ‘You can skip the letter X if you want.’ Lou’s smile reappears.

  ‘Yes, Bobby. I can get you some joints, which I will roll for you. And I’m willin’ to go four-fifty a joint. Friend’s price. Anything else?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Zilch,’ I say and lean forward with my hand extended.

  Lou’s hand is cold and dry.

  ‘That seemed to work,’ Roddy says. ‘Now, would any pairing like to show the rest of the group the conversation you created?’

  Lou and me stare at each other knowingly.

  I really didn’t want to ask Lou in the first place. However, desperate times and all that. I want him to see me as this sorted, confident high-achiever type, not some crazed loser, which is maybe how I come across. Pot, kettle, black if he did.

  Whatever.

  Is what it is.

  Am what I am.

  Skinheads

  I want to rush to Mum’s room and tell her that I’ve sourced some gear. All systems go and all that. But I don’t do anything. I’m flopped on my bed enjoying the silence of the house and the flickerings of my thoughts. I replay the conversation exercise with Lou and chuckle at its bizarreness. It was like we had this telepathy going on. Bel texts to tell me she’s almost at our front door.

  When I do go into Mum’s room I’m startled. She’s sitting upright in bed, smiling. In no obvious pain. She knows who I am.

  ‘You’re up,’ I say.

  ‘Honestly, Bobby, you should join the police. They’re missing your genius.’

  ‘No, I mean, it’s good you’re up. You feeling OK?’

  ‘I feel fine. I’ve had lots of sleep.’

  ‘You in pain?’

  ‘Only now that I’m seeing you.’

  ‘Brilliant news!’ And it is.

  I don
’t say anything about the gear. I don’t want to know if she remembers.

  ‘Bel will be here in a minute. Want to come down and see her?’

  ‘Maybe she can cut this mop of mine,’ Mum says, rummaging through her stringy hair.

  ‘What about me? Am I sacked?’

  ‘No, but I do think Bel has a genuine future in that industry. We should help her.’

  ‘Mum, don’t be cruel.’

  ‘Guilty.’

  ‘You want her to do it or not?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Right, I’ll text her, tell her to get into role.’ I send a quick message. Then hear her arrive downstairs.

  Mum tries to swing her legs off the bed. She winces, but hides it.

  ‘I need a pee, son,’ she says.

  I carry her to the toilet, place my hands on her shoulders: she requires balancing even when seated. I whistle The Smiths song ‘The Boy with the Thorn in His Side’. In mid-flow, she turns her head, beams up at me. I see her teeth, still holding their pearl colour. Everything about her glows. She looks youthful, like a girl actually, her eyes momentarily without torment. And, from my viewpoint, you wouldn’t have known; you’d have thought nothing was wrong. She was just a woman full of life, full of beauty. My mum, full of health. And I know what she’s thinking, what she wants to say. It doesn’t matter, there’s no need for her to tell me. I know. I love her as well. In buckled body or fine frame, I love her in return. She approves the irony of my whistling choice.

  When she’s done, we wash up, I help her downstairs.

  ‘Hi, Anne, welcome to Bel’s Beauty Emporium,’ Bel says, standing in the kitchen, instruments in hand. I help Mum into a chair.

  ‘I like what you’ve done with the place, Bel,’ Mum’s voice slurs.

  Bel looks at me.

  I widen my eyes.

  Bel wraps a towel around Mum’s shoulders.

  ‘Just the usual, Anne?’

  ‘Actually, I might have a change,’ Mum says.

  ‘Change is good.’

  ‘Yeah, Mum, change is good.’

  ‘Give me a skinhead then,’ Mum orders.

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Bel says, getting ready to snip her scissors into action for a trim. ‘One female skinhead coming right up.’

  But I see that Mum isn’t kidding.

  ‘That’s exactly what I want,’ she says. ‘I’m serious.’

  Bel searches for my support.

  ‘I think she is serious, you know,’ I say.

  ‘You serious, Anne?’

  ‘As cancer.’

  ‘So … do we even have clippers, Bobby?’ Bel asks.

  ‘Eh … I think we have some upstairs,’ I say.

  ‘Go get them, son.’

  From behind Mum’s back, Bel mouths a ‘What the fuck?’, clearly reading my mind.

  ‘Why don’t we hold off on the haircut for now?’ I suggest.

  ‘It’s going to be my birthday soon and I want a skinhead. Always wanted one.’

  ‘You do have the right-shaped head for it actually,’ Bel says.

  My turn to mouth a ‘What the fuck?’ to Bel.

  ‘But your birthday’s already been sorted, Mum. I got that stuff you asked for.’

  I don’t mean to tell her, it just blurts out.

  ‘Yeah, he got it, Anne.’

  ‘Remember you asked me?’ I say.

  ‘Course I remember, Bobby.’

  ‘Great!’ I say, nodding positively. I want to crush her with hugs, and it’s got shit all to do with the gear.

  ‘Was it expensive?’ Mum asks.

  ‘It’s on me. I cut a deal,’ I say.

  ‘Listen to you,’ Bel says.

  ‘Sounds like a Wall Street banker,’ Mum says.

  ‘More like Wally Street wan–’

  ‘OK, OK,’ I say.

  ‘You’re a good boy, Bobby,’ Mum says.

  ‘When do you get it?’ Bel asks.

  ‘Picking it up any day now. Leave it to me.’

  Bel points to herself and mouths, ‘I want some.’ I tease her with a slow headshake and a ‘No chance.’

  ‘Right,’ says Bel. ‘Are we doing this skinhead or not?’

  ‘Skinhead? Honestly, Mum?’

  She lifts her head, shows both of us those pearly teeth.

  ‘You two really are a couple of eejits, aren’t you? Of course I don’t want a skinhead. I’m ill, not whacko.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ Bel says.

  ‘Yeah, for a moment I was thinking you’d totally lost it,’ I tell her.

  In that instance her expression changes. She has that look. It’s defiance. Rebellion. Whatever it is, it isn’t my mum. Her fingers stroke her hair.

  ‘Actually, Bel,’ she says. ‘Take it all off.’

  ‘What? All of it?’ Bel asks.

  ‘Everything,’ Mum says.

  Blowback

  On the bus to Lou’s house I’m on edge. I feel like someone’s rammed all my organs into a NutriBullet and is about to force-feed them back to me. The bumping bus fails to ease matters, and it’s roasting too. Off to collect my contraband, a criminal on his maiden mission. The new shirt I’m wearing is giving me gyp: should I fasten it all the way up or open the top button? Basically, to show or not to show. I attempt both and check out what looks best in my phone’s screen. I text Bel, who’s holding fort while I do the mule run.

  Just give me a squeal if u need anything. All OK?

  Who is this?

  Bel, I’m serious.

  STOP annoying me!

  Wot you doin’?

  Just watching some YouTube.

  Right.

  All good here. Don’t get murdered.

  My mouth is dry, eyes sting with tiredness.

  I check the messages.

  Lou had written: Hey dude, got my hands on dem apples you asked 4. U can pick up from my place if easier.

  I’d written: You got GEAR?????

  Lou had written: Apples, Bobby. Fuks wrong with you? APPLES!

  I don’t want to judge, but I’m surprised that Lou’s doing the deal at his house. I thought we’d do it after a Poztive meeting or in a park.

  The vintage Vespa is chained up outside his front door. I have no idea of the protocol. I grasp money in one hand, knock with the other.

  ‘Bobby,’ he says as he opens the door.

  ‘Hi, Lou,’ I say.

  ‘Looking sharp, dude.’ He scans my clothes.

  ‘Just chucked it on. I was in a rush.’

  ‘Life’s one goddam rush, if you ask me.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there, come in. Come in.’

  He steps aside and I enter.

  Place doesn’t smell uncared for.

  I follow him into the living room. Nice. No disability bed under a window or anything like that. I wish I could keep our gaff as tidy. But Lou doesn’t have a Danny to look after, and our Danny is basically Stig of the Dump.

  ‘No one here?’ I ask.

  ‘Just us,’ he says.

  ‘What about …’

  ‘Oh, and Mom. She’s upstairs. Sleepin’. She’s on some pretty rad meds, so she’ll be out cold for the night. You wanna drink or somethin’?’

  ‘No, I’m good.’

  It’s awkward just standing there without knowing what to say or how to act. Lou makes his way to a cupboard under the telly and whips out a small phalanx of white pencils. Joints.

  ‘This is what I’m talkin’ about, Bobby.’ He smiles at me. ‘The black gold, my friend. The black gold.’

  ‘Cool.’

  He holds one joint aloft like he’s holding the Olympic torch, as if it’s a symbol of great cultural significance.

  ‘These are yours,’ he says, showing me a battalion of immaculately rolled joints. ‘And this one here is our little treat.’

  I was ready for a quick exchange but it looks like Lou’s having none of it. He wants to initiate me into the murky world of illegal highs; he won’t rele
ase the joints unless I puff one he’s pre-rolled. Or, as he puts it, ‘Only fools flash cash before testing the quality of the hash, dude.’

  The Olympic torch is in front of my face. Hypnotic. Never having smoked anything banned in my life, I’m scared shitless. Too terrified to protest. Before I know the score the joint’s lit and Lou’s sucking the life out of it, the tip poker-red as he drags goodness into his lungs. After holding the smoke in his bloated cheeks for a few seconds, he blows a cloud over my head. I blink, twitch my nose. The smell is intense. I am rigid with fear.

  ‘That shit’s the bomb.’ Lou holds it out to me in a gesture of kindness and kinship. My turn.

  Oh, God!

  I guess this is what you’d call peer pressure. It’s a strong pulling power. I know I have to hop on a bus home later with all these commuting strangers staring at me – the stoner. I swot the offer away.

  ‘Erm … erm … I’ve … erm … never … really …’

  ‘That’s cool, Bobby. I get it, man. You’ve got virgin lips, no problem. We all have to start somewhere.’

  ‘No, I want to. I do. I mean, I just don’t want to have a whitey, that’s all,’ I say, trying to sound as though I know all the jargon. ‘Will your mum not smell it?’

  ‘She’s out cold, don’t worry about her.’

  ‘What about your dad?’

  ‘The old man is on business. He does his thing, I do mine.’

  ‘Sisters? Brothers?’

  ‘Just me, dude. Just you and me.’

  I run my tongue around my mouth.

  ‘Thing is, Lou, I’ve never been much of a smoker. I don’t fancy the pain of it hitting the back of my throat.’

  ‘No problem, I can sort that. I’ll just give you a little blowback,’ Lou says.

  Come again?

  A what?

  I almost vomit up my own heart. For a split second there I thought … I thought. I can’t say what goes through my mind in the gap of that split second.

  ‘Er … a … a … what?’ I say.

  ‘A blowback,’ he says again. ‘It’s when you take a puff, hold it in your mouth, then blow it into someone else’s mouth.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Think of it as a kind of karmic transference, dude.’