The Weight of a Thousand Feathers

by Brian Conaghan

  As much as I stare at my phone, willing a pinged response, nothing comes. I turn it on and off. Change settings. Alter the volume. Nothing. It’s the waiting, the silence that kills me the most. It screams that I’ve ballsed up my friendship with Bel. I keep seeing her flying on to the bed. It’s a throttling image that I can’t shake off. I see her eyes laced with fear and confusion; I see the tears crawl down her face after her skull batters the headboard. Those eyes! Shame doesn’t even come close.

  The racket around me gets louder.

  ‘Hey, dude,’ Lou says, plonking himself down beside me.

  ‘Hi, Lou,’ I say.

  ‘How did those joints work out for you?’

  ‘Erm … yeah … erm … good,’ I say, attempting to jolt myself back into life. ‘Really good.’

  ‘Likey likey then?’ He raises his eyebrow.

  ‘Yeah, a lot,’ I lie.

  ‘Well, there’s more of that shit to be had.’ And from his jacket he furtively pulls out a little bag of three pre-rolled joints.

  Shit! That’s all I need, my mind yelps.

  ‘Jesus, Lou,’ I whisper, looking around to see if anyone has seen him doing it. Then realise that I’m the one who is being conspicuous. ‘If you get caught with that stuff, you’re …’

  ‘What? Roddy’s gonna whack me? What’s the worst that can happen?’

  ‘Don’t know, sent home, I suppose.’

  ‘Exactly. What a shit cloud that would be, eh?’ he says. ‘Dude, if I’m gonna be spendin’ days surrounded by horse shit and pig piss then I’m gonna need somethin’ to take the edge off.’

  ‘I’m not sure it’ll be that type of trip, Lou. Look around, do we look like countryside rambler types to you?’ (Lou glances over his shoulder.) ‘Even Roddy doesn’t have that look about him. No, I think we’re going to be spending the time playing indoor games, being bored, moaning and telling each other all the time how desperate we are to get back home.’

  ‘All the better to have a bit of extracurricular then,’ he says, patting his jacket pocket. The denim.

  Something inside stops me from screaming, NO! NO, I DON’T WANT TO BE PART OF THIS SORDID ESCAPADE, LOU. I’m mute. His ability to creep under my skin is impressive, overpowering almost. I’m about to say, ‘Count me in,’ or words to that effect, when my phone vibrates in my hand.

  ‘I better take this, Lou,’ I say.

  ‘Say no more. I’m outta here.’

  I don’t recognise the number.

  ‘Hello,’ I say.

  In the ensuing conversation I say the word ‘yes’ four times, ‘no’ three times, ‘thanks’ twice and ‘goodbye’ once.

  The phone call has deflated me.

  I gesture for Lou to come sit with me again, attempt to sideline any thoughts of Bel. Not easy, but doable with Lou there.

  ‘Mum’s nurse,’ I say.

  ‘Problems?’

  ‘No, she just wanted to talk about some stuff, double-checking things.’

  ‘So what’s the deal with your mom?’ Lou asks.

  ‘No deal.’

  ‘Your face. Looks like a deal to me.’

  ‘Aw, it’s nothing serious.’

  ‘Don’t look like it.’

  Lou places a reassuring hand on my knee; the heat emanating from his palm burns right through to my skin. His fingers are explosive. I want to rewire my brain, close my eyes and enjoy the rest of the journey. Lou says nothing because Lou understands: he gets my pain; he suffers and exists in it too. If I can’t be open with someone like him without feeling vulnerable and weak, then who can I be?

  ‘She’s declining pretty rapidly,’ I tell him. ‘She’s practically bedridden, not much control over her bladder, her muscles are so painful that it seems as if her nerves are like mercury. I think her brain is crashing too.’ I pause and take in some air. ‘In fact, it is failing.’

  ‘Shit, Bobby.’ Lou puts pressure on to my knee. ‘That’s an immense load, dude.’

  ‘With each day that passes it’s as if a part of her is leaving us.’

  Lou nods his head, removes his hand and grabs on to the seat in front of him. He’s mulling. His hand then connects tightly with my shoulder.

  ‘You don’t have to go through this alone, Bobby,’ he says.

  His hand tightens. I don’t look to acknowledge it, neither does he, but it’s there and it’s real.

  ‘Thanks, Lou.’

  ‘I mean it. Don’t isolate yourself with this, OK?’

  ‘Appreciate it, Lou.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I really am.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It’s a fuckin’ drag.’

  ‘It’s a pain in the arse all right, but we’re hoping it’ll all get better,’ I say, surprised by my choice of phrase; not for a second do I believe it to be a pain in the arse.

  ‘Still! It’s one rough ride you got there, Bobby.’

  ‘We all do, right?’ I say.

  ‘You got it.’ Lou’s hand falls from my shoulder. ‘I’m no different to anyone else.’

  ‘No, but if there’s anything I can do, just yell my way,’ he says.

  ‘Thanks, Lou. I’m pretty sure you have your own problems to deal with though.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  It’s all about ME ME ME. God, what a selfish prick I am at times. Lou probably has a similar experience with his own mother: the same sense of hopelessness and constant fear of what the future holds. You don’t ever hear him pouring it over the heads of others. I don’t want to be a burden to him.

  ‘Roddy! Roddy!’ a voice from behind shouts.

  ‘What?’ Roddy shouts back.

  ‘Put some tunes on.’

  ‘Music?’ Roddy shouts.

  ‘Yeah, duh! Something good,’ Harriet shouts.

  ‘As long as it’s not any of that grime stuff Harriet listens to,’ Cal shouts.

  ‘Any rap?’ Lou shouts.

  ‘Crap, more like,’ shouts Harriet.

  ‘I wouldn’t be a fan of that,’ Cal agrees.

  ‘If any rap music goes on, stop the bus so I can get off,’ Harriet says.

  ‘Technically it’s a van,’ Cal says. ‘But let’s not quibble.’

  I can’t see much of Roddy’s face, only his twinkling eyes in the rear-view mirror. They suggest an ear-to-ear grin, delighted that his troops are in fine fettle, each and every one of them animated and energised by freedom. I’m playing catch-up.

  ‘Wait until you hear this – you’ll love it,’ Roddy shouts over his shoulder.

  ‘It’d better kick ass,’ Lou roars.

  Roddy fumbles with the van’s antiquated stereo system for a few seconds. When the music blares he vigorously hammers the steering wheel.

  ‘What’s this shit?’ Harriet screams.

  ‘Shit? What do you mean, shit?’ Roddy shouts.

  ‘Pure shit.’ Harriet returns fire.

  ‘Don’t dare insult the genius that is AC/DC. I’m giving you the classics here,’ Roddy bellows over the noise.

  ‘What the fuck is AC/DC?’ I hear Tom say.

  ‘Put something on that we know, Roddy,’ Harriet shouts.

  ‘Philistines, the lot of you,’ he says, laughing.

  ‘Something that has unifying qualities,’ Cal bawls.

  Roddy switches AC/DC off, replaces it with something to quench the musical thirst of the masses.

  When the new tune kicks in most people seem to instantly know it and instantly like it. Heads bob, fingers tap the backs of seats and feet shift in time with the rhythm. Harriet, Clare and Tom are familiar with the song, so they sing along. But me – well, I think the Arctic Monkeys are a bit passé. But then I like the songs from Grease, so what do I know?

  ‘This song is ridiculous,’ Cal says.

  ‘Eh?’ Tom says, scowling at him.

  And I’m just about to join in the chanting when my phone pings. Bel’s name winks at me. My intestines tighten and twist. I swear they do.

  Dnt sweat it Seed. I 4gi
ve ur angry mental arse

  Don’t forgive me, Im a dick. SOZ!!!!!

  I no ur a dick … couldv told u that yonks ago

  Im dead soz, Bel! Just got me thinking about mum

  Well im SOZ 2 for being miss proper insensitive

  No need. Still my buddy then?

  Always

  Luv u doll!!

  U 2. Hav shite weekend X

  Try my best. C u when get bak

  K

  My relief is akin to a ten-tonne cow being removed from my neck. I’m guilty as charged, but can head to the Borders a reformed, rehabilitated gentleman. I’m weak, I’m flawed and I do irrational things. I’m so sorry, Bel.

  I squeeze my phone into the front pocket of my jeans. A different song comes through the speakers. I turn to Lou.

  ‘This song is cracking.’

  Music’s all about mood and atmosphere, after all.

  ‘I agree, quality tune,’ he says.

  ‘Love it,’ I say.

  ‘It’s cool.’ He starts tapping his hand on the seat in front.

  I mirror him.

  As do Tom and Cal. Our heads move to the beat.

  ‘Are we nearly there yet, Dad?’ Harriet shouts at Roddy.

  ‘Another half hour,’ Roddy shouts back.

  ‘Turn it up a bit then,’ she calls.

  Roddy cranks the volume up. A collective whoop thunders out from everyone. Seats get thumped, heads bang in harmony and voices belt out the verse. No danger making it as a chamber choir, but who cares? We have spirit and togetherness. It surges through the van.

  ‘Fucking love this song,’ Harriet cries.

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ I shout.

  When the chorus kicks in it’s pure party bus all the way to the Borders.

  We’re so far from home, from our duties, from that day we refused to sing karaoke. Embarrassment? What embarrassment? What a difference.

  Playing Charades

  Rooms are sorted – the three girls are sharing, Roddy’s flying solo, Tom and Cal are in their own brain clash and I’m with Lou in the attic.

  Then off we plod for a walk around the grounds of the country estate, to ‘breathe in some of Scotland’s finest air,’ as Roddy puts it.

  Can’t really call what we’re doing ‘walking’; instead we shuffle along like an uncooperative flock of sheep cowering from the biting drizzle. The vibrant mood of the van has vanished.

  ‘Country estate’ gives it an undeserving grandeur; the gaff is a decrepit kip, makes the Colosseum look positively futuristic. Inside and out the place is crumbling in front of our eyes; everything creaks and smells of damp cats. In our attic room only the brave would sit their arse on the toilet or place a naked foot in the shower. The furniture in the musty grand rooms downstairs is archaic, while the grounds we lumber around are sodden and unkempt. No one, apart from Roddy, obviously, has brought appropriate footwear. What happened to escaping our troubles in luxurious surroundings?

  We all huddle together pretending to be in collective misery. Naturally Lou, not a word mincer, is the first to vocalise his thoughts.

  ‘This place is a shit heap, Rod.’

  ‘It’s pure rotten,’ Harriet says.

  ‘I agree, it’s somewhat tired,’ Cal says.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ Roddy says.

  ‘Perfect?’ Harriet adds.

  ‘It’s peaceful,’ Roddy says.

  ‘You kiddin’ me? Jeffrey Dahmer would turn his nose up at this place,’ Lou says.

  ‘Jeffery who?’ Harriet asks.

  ‘Think he’s America’s answer to Fred West,’ I say. ‘Right, Lou?’

  ‘You got it, Bobby,’ Lou says.

  ‘Who the fuck’s Fred West?’ Harriet asks.

  ‘A serial killer,’ I tell her.

  ‘Wasn’t there that doctor dude as well?’ Lou adds.

  ‘Oh, yeah, Harold Shipman,’ Harriet says. ‘Proper evil bonkers he was.’

  ‘Unlike the others?’ I say.

  ‘Who are these people? I seriously don’t have a clue,’ Tom tells everyone. Clare and Erin are taking in the scenery.

  Our huddle gets tighter. To be heard you have to shout over the laughter. Is this camaraderie in action?

  ‘All these people are serial killers, Tom,’ I say.

  ‘Why are we all talking about serial killers?’ Tom asks.

  ‘Beats me,’ I say.

  ‘Because this place has the look of a serial killer’s retirement home,’ Lou says. ‘Nobody knows who’s gonna be knockin’ on their door tonight.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d bolt it shut if I were you,’ I say.

  ‘No chance. They’d go for one of them first.’ Tom nods at the girls. ‘Saying that, maybe they’d give Clare a wide berth.’ Clare aims a kick and Tom jerks away. Sniggers. But she manages an impressive hook to his shoulder. Hefty laughter.

  ‘Maybe there’s a serial killer among us now,’ Harriet states.

  ‘Shit, secret’s out,’ Lou says. ‘Was it in my eyes?’

  ‘I didn’t want to say, mate,’ she says.

  ‘I forgot my toolkit,’ Lou adds. ‘So you’re all safe for the weekend … at least.’

  Even Roddy guffaws.

  ‘Can we stop this serial killer crap?’ Clare says. ‘I’m absolutely Baltic.’

  ‘Me too,’ Erin says.

  ‘Positively sub-zero,’ Cal says.

  Roddy crashes his hands together. ‘Right, everyone back inside. Relax for an hour or so and then we’ll call out for pizza and watch a movie. How does that sound?’

  ‘Can you even get pizza around here?’ Harriet asks.

  ‘We’re not in outer Siberia, Harriet,’ Roddy says.

  ‘Feels like it,’ Tom says.

  ‘Watchin’ a movie? What happened to “breathin’ in Scotland’s finest air”, Rod?’ Lou says.

  ‘Bugger that, I’m freezing.’ Roddy starts running full pelt back to the house. As needy little children we follow our leader. We’re delighted to be exactly where we are.

  Freezing.

  But free.

  *

  A few inches more and we’d have been rattling our heads off the v-shaped attic roof. A rickety three-drawer unit separates our single beds; we’re afraid to use the drawers in case the thing crumbles under the weight of a few pairs of boxers. The wardrobe next to the door looks like the oldest dry-rot survivor known to man: a grimy relic standing to attention, stalking us as we sleep, waiting for an opportune moment to pounce.

  ‘I ain’t puttin’ my stuff near that thing,’ Lou says.

  I wholeheartedly agree. We decide to live out of our bags.

  The mattresses are springy and concaved. No need to battle it out for the best bed. Both shit. I lie on mine, stick my hands behind my head and watch Lou potter about. Mainly he opens and closes doors, scans the sloping ceiling for the tenth time, murmurs lots and tuts to himself. His grumpiness doesn’t bother me – if anything I find it amusing. Lying there with my eyes on him feels good: good not to be at anyone’s beck and call. Choreless.

  ‘Think I’ll take a shower before the evenin’ entertainment begins,’ Lou says. ‘Then, before we head down …’ He produces one of the joints from his top pocket.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do that, Lou?’ I say.

  ‘Don’t pussy out on me, dude. Just a quick de-escalator.’

  ‘No, I mean about the shower. It’s vile.’ I smile.

  ‘I’ll keep my socks on,’ Lou says, unfastening his belt. He then begins unbuttoning his shirt. The house’s tang attacks my mouth. I consider licking my lips, but I don’t. I just can’t, can I? My conscience screams: Stay on his eyes! Stay on his eyes! Eye contact at ALL times! At ALL times!

  ‘Yeah, fresh shirt needed for me, I think.’ I hop off my bed, under the pretence of rummaging through my bag, and crouch down with my back to Lou. I breathe once more.

  ‘Wish me luck,’ he says.

  ‘Good luck,’ I say from my hunkered position. ‘You’re not going to smoke th
at thing in the shower, Lou? Are you?’ I say, slowly turning my head.

  ‘Sometimes I worry about you, Bobby. I really do,’ he says. ‘OK, here goes.’

  When the shower next door starts, my heart resumes its normal rhythm. There’s a bead of sweat on my brow. Aware that the clock’s ticking, I quickly pull the shirt around my shoulders, fire a generous spray of deodorant under my pits and leap back on to the bed.

  Between the water stopping and Lou’s return can’t be more than fifty seconds. He exits the bathroom wearing only his towel. I jump off the bed again, fiddling with my shoes this time.

  ‘Fuck me sideways,’ he moans. ‘That was like bein’ water-boarded in a pig’s trough.’

  ‘Not to be recommended then?’ I say, still with my back to him, undoing and retying my laces.

  ‘Unless you’re the kind of person who’d enjoy a weekend in Jeffrey Dahmer’s fridge, I wouldn’t recommend it.’

  My body shakes with giggles.

  When I hear the sound of Lou’s legs entering his jeans and the chime of his belt buckling, I stand to face him.

  ‘Cool shirt, dude,’ he says.

  He’s bare-chested.

  On his eyes!

  ‘Thought I’d spruce up before we went downstairs.’

  Lou takes a step closer.

  Eyes!

  ‘I need to get me one of them checky shirts.’ He places his hand on my breast pocket. DON’T look at the eyes! DON’T! ‘Very nice indeed.’

  ‘Glad you like it,’ I say, casual and unconcerned. ‘I’m bursting for a piss.’ It’s the only thing that springs to mind; it gives me the opportunity to escape for a few minutes before re-entering a new man.

  When I get back from my bogus pee, Lou’s fully dressed and standing with his head popping out of one of the attic windows.

  ‘Here,’ he says, holding out the joint. ‘Want some?’

  ‘Not sure, to be honest.’

  ‘Come on, two hits and you’ll be good to go.’ Lou obviously sees the stress on my face. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t intend to blast the whole thing myself. I’m not that dumb.’

  ‘Don’t want to be mangled in front of the others,’ I say.