‘Tell me, Bobby, what can two drags do?’
‘To me, a lot.’
‘It’ll make whatever Rod has planned for us more bearable, think of it that way.’
‘Two puffs,’ I say. ‘And nothing more.’
‘Two’s plenty, my friend.’ He offers me the joint.
I take it from his hand and bring it to my lips as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, suck it deep into my lungs, praying I won’t cough.
‘Here, blow it out of the window.’ Lou opens it a little further for me. ‘Good smoke, right?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. But, honestly, I wouldn’t have known the difference between the good, the shit or the ugly. ‘So, are you missing home then?’ I think the joint’s giving me a certain freedom to ask what I want. Confidence to do what I’d normally not do.
‘Jesus, we’ve only been here, like, ten minutes.’
‘I know, but still.’
‘What’s to miss, dude?’
‘Well, your mum or dad for a start. The routine. I don’t know. It just feels a bit weird that we’re here, in this place. Don’t you think?’ I say.
‘Do I miss my dad?’ Lou makes a noise. I can’t decide whether it’s a snide giggle or an affectionate snort.
‘You and your dad don’t get on well?’
‘He lives in the States. We don’t see each other. We don’t talk. Nothin’ to miss. Nothin’ to get on about.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Why the fuck should you be sorry?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe because you sound bitter, or angry at him.’
‘Me? Bitter? Fuck, no!’ Lou stretches out his hand. ‘Hey, you gonna pass that thing or not?’
‘Oh, sorry.’ I fire it into my mouth for a final naughty puff. ‘Here.’
Lou takes three drags in rapid succession. He holds the smoke in his mouth, lets his cheeks inflate. I have a strong urge to pop one of his puffed-out cheeks, but before I can lift a finger he’s blown the smoke out the window.
‘And, anyway, he’s the one who should be sorry.’ Lou’s voice is high-pitched and crackly.
‘Who should?’
‘My old man.’
‘Sorry? Him? Why? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Don’t matter.’ Lou tips his head out the window; his hair sways in the wind. He momentarily closes his eyes. ‘That’s just the way it is.’
‘I shouldn’t have pried.’
He brings his head back in from the elements.
‘You’re OK, aren’t you, Bobby?’ Lou’s stare is intense.
‘Well …’ I can’t seem to get the words out. I think I might have blushed.
‘I mean, you’re decent. You care about shit, don’t you? You’re what girls would call a nice guy.’ He does that inverted commas thing around the phrase ‘nice guy’. ‘Actually, you’re much better than that – you’d be a “really nice guy” or a “super nice guy”.’
‘You as well,’ I say.
‘I ain’t no nice guy. I’m an asshole. I know it and so do the others.’ He nods his head towards downstairs. ‘I’m not like you, Bobby.’
‘Maybe that’s what having a sick mother does for you,’ I say. ‘Can leave you angry and bitter.’
We share a knowing look. I shouldn’t have prodded; a smirk comes over Lou’s face.
‘Havin’ a sick mom has nothin’ to do with it. No, havin’ a sick mom just makes you obligin’ and guilty. Essentially you become a slave to them, but a slave who loves their master nonetheless.’
‘I don’t feel like that.’
‘I’m payin’ you a fuckin’ compliment, shit-brain. Don’t let your mom take the credit for everything, OK?’ he says, ruffling my hair with his open palm. ‘Sometimes you’ve got to stand up and be counted. Be an individual.’
A compliment, what’s that? I don’t get compliments. I could stand at this window all night blowing smoke into the ether and listen to Lou’s words until the birds chirp. I’d listen to him wax on about all the stuff I’m good at, how he sees me. Actually, how does he see me? Know what? I don’t like the notion that I’m anyone’s slave. Not true. And no one is my master either. No one.
‘OK.’ I push his hand away.
I’ve had a total of four puffs of the joint. I’d say Lou has had about eight or nine. His eyes drift and look longingly into the cold Borders night.
‘When Mom got sick, the old man ran off back to the States. Couldn’t handle it, could he?’ Lou’s focus is firmly on the goings-on outside the window. He doesn’t so much as glance in my direction. ‘I mean, what kind of asshole does that, Bobby? What sort of person abandons his responsibilities? What weak sack of shit would do that?’
I don’t have answers to these questions. If indeed they are questions.
The joint is starting to embrace me warmly, flooding my brain with that weird time sensory distortion thing.
‘Mom and me didn’t need him anyway,’ Lou says.
‘Is that why you never talk about your mum when we’re in the group meetings?’ I ask. ‘Because it brings back memories of your dad?’
He scratches his neck, fingerstyles his damp hair.
‘Maybe. Something like that. Who knows?’
‘I’ve never really heard you talking about your mum.’
Lou gives me the same intense stare as before. Harder this time.
‘Which is perfectly OK as well, you know,’ I add hastily. ‘I mean, not everyone’s comfortable with that type of stuff. I mean, I don’t really talk about my mum in the meetings either. Just … to you.’
‘There’s not much to talk about, Bobby. Know what I mean?’ he says.
‘Yeah … of course … I mean … I get it … I totally understand,’ I say, not really knowing or understanding what he means.
‘Course you do. Everyone “understands” everythin’ here, don’t they?’ And out come the inverted commas again.
‘What’s wrong with your mum, Lou?’ I’d never have asked such an intrusive question if it hadn’t been for my intrusive-questions-filtering-system being demolished by the hash. ‘What I mean is … what’s her illness?’
‘Fuck it! Who cares, Bobby, eh? We’re here to forget that shit, aren’t we?’ he spits. ‘That’s what this weekend is all about: forgettin’ shit. That’s what Rod says, and I’m with him.’
Lou sucks the final embers out of the joint – so much for not blasting the whole thing – then flicks the butt high into the night sky.
‘You’re right, we should forget things at home,’ I reply, which I’m more than happy to do.
‘Best we head down, in case Rod comes lookin’ for us,’ Lou says, making his way to the door.
‘OK.’
He scoots before I can close the window.
As soon as I see the others, paranoia and fear kicks in. Roddy chucks some pizza menus on a table and asks us to choose. There’s no way I can concentrate on pizza toppings, no way.
‘Get me anything, as long as there’s no pineapple on it,’ I announce.
‘Anything?’ Roddy says.
‘Anything.’
Whatever combination arrives won’t bother me. I’m so painfully famished that I’d scoff a tramp’s dog if it were plated up. I’m grateful the room we’re in isn’t too bright. I neither want to be seen nor heard.
Three threadbare velvet sofas and a large television square off the room. I flop myself in the corner of one of the sofas. Lou sits alongside Harriet and Tom. For the first half hour I’ve no idea who I’m sitting next to. Definitely Erin or Clare, the smell can’t be anyone else: that unmistakable fresh make-up and perfume fusion screams woman. Reminds me of Bel, and further back, Mum.
I’m conscious that I’m not contributing anything to the goings-on. I sit in silence while waves of guilt envelop me. Could be the hash. I think of Mum’s wish. I visualise it happening. Actually fucking visualise it: I’m on top, pinning her down with my knees and compressing her throat with my thumbs. I think of Lou
and my invasive questions. My act of aggression towards Bel. That’s what guilt does: it judges the word ‘sorry’ to be meaningless. I take out my phone.
Hi dollface. Place is a shitstorm! Ud luv it! Miss U. SOZ AGAIN!!!!!
Seems as if we’ve been waiting days for those pizzas to arrive. My pangs of hunger are torturous, I’m feeling strapped in by starvation, a bit like being stuck in the middle seat on a long-haul flight.
During the wait, Roddy suggests a game of charades. Of course he does! Boys versus the girls and Roddy. Needless to say, the boys’ team is severely hampered by a couple of useless stoned space eejits. We’re in no fit state to do our best Modern Family, Breaking Bad or La La Land mimes. My sole contribution is to clarify whether the person’s mime is a film, song, television programme, book or play. Lou’s input is to gawp keenly at whatever’s in front of him. Totally absorbed. In that moment, this game of charades is more important to Lou than, say, the Middle East peace talks.
His gaping mouth and savage stare put Cal and Tom off their stride. I think he might have muttered ‘Friends’ at one point, but I’m not one hundred per cent sure. How we get away with it I’ll never know.
When the pizzas arrive it’s like zoo time. I don’t inspect any of the slices before I put them into my mouth. ‘Put’ makes it sound mannerly, more like shove, thrust, drive, hoover … Take your pick.
‘Fuck’s sake, talk about Man v. Food,’ Harriet says, looking directly at me in disgust and referencing one of Tom’s mimes.
‘Right, guys, we have a choice of a couple of movies.’ Roddy holds up two DVD cases.
‘What are they?’ Erin asks.
‘This one’s called The Babadook,’ Roddy says. ‘And this is Whiplash.’
‘No, not heard of them,’ Tom says. ‘Are these arty-farty films, Roddy?’
‘Is that that film about a drummer?’ Clare asks.
‘It is indeed,’ Roddy says.
‘Is this some kind of punishment, Roddy?’ Harriet says. ‘Who wants to watch some film about some twat battering the shit out of a set of drums?’
‘What’s that other one about?’ Erin asks.
‘The Babadook,’ Roddy says, holding it aloft, ‘is about an imaginary monster.’
‘Sounds intriguing,’ Cal says.
‘No way. I’ll be shitting it,’ Harriet says.
I don’t challenge the decision, even though I really want to see Whiplash. But it’s done.
We’re settling down to a good old-fashioned horror flick in our dark and isolated house, where I’m sleeping in the attic next to some stoned guy who might or might not have anger issues. What could possibly go wrong? Well, for one, somebody (a girl) could snuggle up to Lou on the sofa and we’d be three in the attic. I try not to think about that prospect.
If anyone was going to have the hots for Lou I’d have placed all my chips on Harriet. That could be my lazy assumption about girls who wear music T-shirts: how they lean towards those rough-edged guys, or those with that tortured-artist aura about them. You know, borderline arseholes. Not that Lou is an arsehole, far from it, but I can see how others might view him that way.
Fact is, I’m wrong about Harriet. How? Well, the film’s barely begun when I spy her and Tom mauling each other’s face on the opposite sofa. Huge part of me is relieved Tom is not Lou. Huge part is jealous because I too want to be desired like that. Not by Harriet because, just … you know.
I conjure an image of being next to Lou on the sofa, me edging closer to him, a sudden craving for our bodies to vie for breathing space. Why can’t I? Why can’t I just hoosh myself over to him a notch? I’m fed up with always being the guy who’s never desired. Mr Everybody’s Friend. Bel doesn’t count because … well … because Bel’s female.
Long story very short. Not long after the film kicks in Harriet was in such a state of terror that Tom offered her an arm of protection. That protection developed into a cosy snuggle, before quickly morphing into an affectionate hug, which then turned into little pecks on Harriet’s head; from there it wasn’t long before they were getting down to some serious lip-on-lip tongue-twisting action. Fortunately, Roddy’s conked out, as has everyone else. Except Lou and me. The wide-eyed boys.
‘I’m goin’ to bed, dude,’ he says to me. ‘Fucked if I’m sittin’ here with a big gooseberry suit on. No way. Not my scene. Time to crash.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘I might just stay and watch the end of the film though.’
‘Whatever, dude. I’m outta here.’
‘Night then,’ I say.
‘Yeah, night … and that.’
He boosts, leaving a slew of young carers in his wake. Some horny, most knackered. And one (me) confused as hell as to whether I have deeper feelings for him. And, if so, why him? He’s tough to read and makes me awkward when I’m around him.
Revelations
I don’t bother waiting until the film is over. Shame because it isn’t too bad. I give Lou enough time to fall asleep. Fifteen, twenty minutes? It turns out to be yet another one of my stoned time distortions, because when I return to the room he isn’t tucked up in bed snoring his head off, is he? No, he isn’t. Lou’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, holding his face in his hands. Is he still melted? On the cusp of a whitey? Or recovering from one? I can’t smell puke, just the general reek of the room. My phone pings.
U dnt miss me so shut it! Ha ha ha. Plus, stop saying SOZ. 4gtten already. Enjoy kip. Wish I was there … NOT!!
When Lou looks up, the glow of my phone illuminates his face. His eyes are spiderwebbed. His cheeks moist. His tears continue to run.
‘Hey, Lou. Are you OK? What’s happened? Is it Harriet snogging Tom?’
‘It’s not that, dude,’ he spits out through tears and snot.
‘What is it? Can I do anything?’
‘It’s something else,’ he says, returning his head to his hands. His shoulders jig up and down. I pocket my phone and take a step closer. Not wanting to intrude too much, I let my hand hover over his back.
‘Lou?’
‘It’s something else, Bobby. It’s just something else.’
Naturally the desire to ask what that something else is gnaws, but I don’t dare. I rest my fingers on his shoulder. Part support. Part affection. He doesn’t recoil. I sit beside him. He looks at me. Crimson eyes. Chaotic hair. Face saturated in despair. I don’t dare ask.
We look at each other.
I do what I do when Danny gets into a similar state: I hold him to my chest, curl one hand around his body, the other around his head. I clamp him tight and make him feel safe. Lou becomes an infant in my arms. It works: his baby-like bleats come to a steady halt. After a while I release him and he’s able to talk calmly. I don’t push, he offers.
‘Sorry, dude,’ he says.
‘You’ve nothing to be sorry about, Lou,’ I say.
‘I’m such a pussy.’
‘It’s good to let stuff out from time to time. Sure. I do the same. What we have to deal with overwhelms us sometimes. We have to let those feelings spill over.’
‘That’s the thing, dude. I’m not sure I belong to who you lot are.’
‘You do. You’re one of us. Every group needs the rebel. You’re vital,’ I joke.
‘No,’ he says abruptly. ‘I’m not.’
‘OK.’
‘Sorry, dude. Didn’t meant to snap, it’s just …’
‘No need to apologise. Seriously,’ I say.
‘It’s just that chat we were havin’ earlier …’
‘About your dad and that?’
‘Yeah. Well, it got me thinkin’ about Mom.’
I nod.
‘That’s why I was upset,’ he continues, playing with a loose thread on his jeans.
‘Right.’
‘When you came in I was thinkin’ about her.’
‘I’m with you, Lou,’ I say, wanting to show him that he’s not alone, he doesn’t have to isolate himself. ‘So many times when I think about my mum I want to
tear the world apart, rip the moon to shreds. Even breathing becomes tough sometimes. It feels as if I’ve been gut-punched. It’s painful, I totally get it.’
I realise there’s a sense of selfishness about opening up my own feelings to Lou. This isn’t about my experiences and emotions, so why am I spilling? Maybe he’s handing me the rope to do so.
‘But you don’t get it. That’s the thing, Bobby. You, Cal, Tom, Clare. None of you get it.’
Lou covers his face and lets out a muffled groan. My arm reaches again for his shoulder.
‘I shouldn’t be here,’ he says.
‘You should.’
‘No, I shouldn’t.’ Lou fires me some serious sad eyes. ‘See, thing is, Bobby, I don’t actually care for anyone.’
I’m not aware I’m doing it, but I recoil from him. Not in condemnation, more confusion. He has a hangdog look about him. ‘I’m no carer, Bobby,’ he says.
‘What … ?’ I need a beat to process what he’s said. ‘What do you mean, you’re no carer? I don’t –’
‘I have no one to care for. It’s that simple. I don’t care for anyone.’
‘But, your mum? What about your mum?’
‘Not any more, dude.’
My response is to shuffle a bit, do some serious blinking and exaggerate my oxygen intake. Melodramatic nonsense. All the time I’m letting his words percolate: he-has-no-one-to-care-for?
My hand goes to him again. I clasp him gently. He has the tension of someone keeping a secret. He doesn’t need to do that. You don’t need to do that with me, Lou. You can let it all out. If your mum is no longer alive, tell me how she died; talk about your last moments together. I’m here.
His bulk springs up and down, convulsing with sobs, but I’m there to absorb and catch if needed. His hair is oily with sweat, as if his head’s been sobbing too. I slide some of it away from his eyes.
He releases himself from my hands; now tears have welled up in me and I’m struggling to keep them inside. I consider his loss, but also think of my own pending loss. And I know he knows this, he does. We hold each other in a stare: it feels natural, no words need to be exchanged. I think I know what he’s asking, what he wants us to do. We share grief.
The Weight of a Thousand Feathers Page 16