The Weight of a Thousand Feathers

by Brian Conaghan

  ‘So you need us then?’ I say.

  Lou scans me; his features have brightened.

  ‘Yeah, I need you bunch of assholes,’ he says. I release a tiny nervous laugh. ‘There, said it. Happy now?’

  ‘No, I totally understand,’ I say. ‘I need you lot too.’

  There’s a silence, or an awkward pause. Hard to tell the difference. During the silence/pause it feels as if my skin’s tickling all over, making me fidget uncomfortably.

  ‘I guess that means we need each other then, doesn’t it?’ Lou says.

  He edges closer to me. I’m not sure I want him to. I’m not sure I don’t want him to either. He comes nearer. My bones bite. As he moves in, I spurt out, ‘Did he get you that scooter?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your dad.’

  ‘Seventeenth birthday present.’

  ‘I got iTunes vouchers for mine,’ I chuckle.

  ‘Let’s not forget he’s still a grade-A asshole though.’

  ‘Roger that,’ I say.

  Lou laughs.

  I puff through my nose. Grin.

  He’s in front of me, places his hands on my shoulders. I take the strain of his weight as his eyes hijack mine. I’m flustered.

  ‘You know what the best part was, Bobby?’ he says.

  ‘About?’

  ‘About letting Mom go?’

  ‘Erm … ?’

  ‘Know what the best part was?’ he says again.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It made me happy knowin’ she was in a better place. It brought life back into my world. I started to notice things again. To enjoy the things I’d blocked out.’

  ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘She was liberated.’

  He inches nearer, or is it me who advances? Everything is fuzzy.

  ‘I’m with you, Lou. Listen …’

  ‘Know what that feels like?’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Liberty, Bobby. Know what liberty feels like?’

  I see so many possibilities, but guilt, duplicity and death enter my mind. So many thoughts and images pass through me. Freedom for Mum. Freedom for Danny and me. I smell pizza and cigarettes off Lou’s breath.

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘I do, and I’m tellin’ you that it’s pretty fuckin’ exhilarating. Better than any high you’ll get from smokin’ some goddam joint, that’s for sure. It’s like … it’s like a perpetual high. An infinite high. That’s what liberty is, Bobby.’

  The entirety of what he’s saying strikes more than a chord: there’s a whole rhapsody of response playing inside my brain. It’s all there in Lou’s story, the similarities. It’s all there. Makes sense. Everything tells me to share my burden. If nothing else, so I can be relieved of the moral torment that’s been plaguing me.

  His hands dig into my biceps like he’s trying to reassure me of something. Like he knows what I’m about to tell him. Like he’s some sort of mind-fucker who sees inside people’s thoughts.

  I don’t tell him. This is Lou’s big night. I can’t trample all over it with my issues.

  We zip our eyes together.

  ‘I’m here for you, Lou,’ is all I say.

  ‘And I’m here for you, Bobby. I want you to know that.’

  ‘I do.’

  Totally zipped.

  ‘Think I want us to lie down now,’ he says.

  *

  Exhilarating. Petrifying. Reassuring.

  It’s everything.

  It’ll be glued to my memory until I’m boxed up and topped with flowers.

  Lou sparks up another joint.

  Right there and then, lying on the bed in that manky room, I declare my joint-smoking days well and truly behind me. Lou doesn’t force me to partake. He doesn’t force me to do any of it. Everything was my choice, straight out of my head, my heart. All mine.

  ‘I know it’s such a goddam cliché,’ Lou says, blowing impressive smoke rings high into the cold air outside our window. ‘But I just have to have a smoke afterwards.’

  ‘Everything about you is a cliché, Lou,’ I say.

  He crashes a pillow against my head.

  ‘Watch it, douchebag.’

  It’s either extremely late or annoyingly early. We’ve been up all night talking. Well, mainly talking. Lou fails to finish the joint; he nips it halfway down. It’s like he’s been given a general anaesthetic: his body flops as his words become inaudible. We’re both exhausted.

  Lou’s head is on my shoulder. His breathing forms tiny droplets of saliva on my chest. I don’t mind. The breath’s a tad edgy, not a problem. His snoring vibrates off my torso. I love its rhythm. His belly gently brushes mine on every exhale: a weary wave stroking the sand. I close my eyes, allow my mind to wander, imagine a deserted coastline with two stragglers lolling around on it. And that’s the thing: we literally could’ve been there, we could’ve been anywhere. All it takes is some assorted images behind these bolted eyes of mine.

  And now I’m bang inside my very own cliché. I try to formulate a poem in my head, something memorable, something short. I need to capture this moment so I can hang my fingertips off it when Lou won’t be around.

  *

  All day Saturday is like wading through smog, as if none of it had happened. Lou doesn’t mention his mum and we don’t attempt to reignite the flames of the previous night. The Saturday is an extension of a Poztive meeting: lots of activities followed by awkward conversation. We barely crack a breath to each other. Beyond weird. We’re both withdrawn. Call it remorse. Call it embarrassment. I want those flames again, I do, but we keep to our separate beds. I don’t sleep much.

  #9 … complete

  the smell of your hair, slicked back and sorted,

  pasted to my skin

  we both took the weight

  you laid bare as I unstripped my own burden

  joyless, serious and full of delicate plotting,

  then we gushed

  but held firm until it led us to now:

  pore on pore

  a mild movement

  a lip parted

  a subtle snore

  and it was that hair I rested my hand upon

  part support

  part affection

  you didn’t recoil

  and neither did I

  Shoot ’Em Up

  On the way home I fluctuate between ecstasy and misery, still trying to wrestle with everything Lou told me … and the other thing. I picture him with his mother, watching that machine pump artificial life into her. I see him ponderous and compassionate. I understand his pain and want to soothe it.

  As I’m walking to my front door, the spring in my step buckles, dark clouds descend. I brace myself as I enter.

  ‘Bel!’ I say when I see her, my arms wide and inviting. ‘I’m so sorry about –’

  ‘Are you still going on about that, Seed?’

  ‘Just mortified and –’

  ‘Bobby, it’s done, it’s over. I’ve forgotten about it. Shit happens and all that.’

  ‘Thanks, Bel.’

  ‘But, to put it mildly, you’re a dick.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘And I’ve always known you’re a dick, so what’s new?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  My arms still await her embrace.

  ‘And if you think you’re getting a hug you can get lost.’

  ‘How’s Danny?’

  ‘He’s in his room, been there most of the weekend.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s a wonder he has any hands left.’

  ‘Bel, please. Too much.’

  ‘Just saying.’

  ‘And Mum?’

  ‘Nurse just says the same thing: “I’ve given medicine, just keep an eye on her.”’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘She’s been sleeping mostly, but I did put some music on for her from time to time. Danny gave her dinner.’

  ‘Soup?’

  ‘Mainly.’

  ‘Th
anks for the music. She’d like that, cheers, Bel.’

  ‘Think I’d need medicine too if I had to listen to some of that guff.’

  ‘Ever thought of becoming a nurse, Bel?’

  ‘Every fucking day, Seed. Every fucking day.’

  A quick examination tells me that a lot of telly watching and not much else has happened over the weekend. I didn’t expect Bel and Danny to spring clean the place, but still! Who wants to live in a kip?

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Bobby,’ she says. ‘I’m going to sort the place out.’

  ‘You don’t have to, you can boost. People must be missing you.’

  ‘You’re joking, right?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Don’t you know this has all been planned?’ she says, rotating her arms. ‘I purposely left the house looking as though it’d been burgled by junkies, then I can spend more time here cleaning up.’

  ‘You mean more time away from your place?’ I say.

  ‘Anyway, I’m on my last episode of this new Netflix series, so I’ll start after that.’ She sinks into the sofa.

  ‘Hey, I was thinking of asking one of the guys from the carers’ group to join us one Friday,’ I say to her. Bel pretends not to hear, focusing on a ladder in her tights. Oh, but she hears me all right.

  ‘Bel?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was thinking of asking Lou to come on Friday. He’s cool. You’d like him.’

  ‘Since when have you started using words like “cool”?’

  ‘He’s nice. That better?’

  ‘The Vespa guy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He bailed on you before.’

  ‘He’s a decent guy, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Decent schmeecent. Do what you want, I couldn’t give two hoots. It’s only a pizza for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘What about a movie as well?’

  ‘Seen enough John Hughes films to do me a lifetime, Bobby. Happy to scrap the movie.’

  She could say no, which I’d probably understand, but she doesn’t. She agrees, with all the grace of a Nazi in a mosque.

  ‘So, will I invite him?’

  ‘Don’t care, do what you want. Your call, Batman.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Can I watch this now?’

  ‘Don’t let me stop you. I’ll go see the troops,’ I say, nodding to upstairs.

  Mum’s asleep, but her mouth opens and closes as though she’s asking for water – reminds me of a baby requesting its milk. She could be bang in the middle of an epic dream where she has the gift of good health: dancing, skipping, running. Making her chums convulse at her hilarious patter. Who’d want to be woken from that? I dab the drool off her face, pick up her glass and slide the straw in her mouth. She sucks like a newborn. I leave without waking her and head to my brother’s room.

  Danny’s sitting at his computer, playing some shoot/kill/explode/obliterate game. He hears but doesn’t acknowledge me. His hands move like the clappers, shooting/killing. Blood splats everywhere. Men – mainly men – writhe around in agony. It’s very real. Very worrying. Definitely need to have some serious computer/internet/games chat.

  ‘Hi, Dan,’ I say. ‘I’m home.’

  He continues to thumb aggressively at his control.

  ‘What you playing, mate?’

  ‘Game,’ he says.

  ‘Looks brutal.’

  ‘It’s got guns.’

  ‘Any good?’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  I stand behind him, pretend I’m interested.

  ‘There’s a guy wounded over there. He one of yours?’ I ask him.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why don’t you help him?’

  ‘He’s going to die. If I help him I might die too. That’d be stupid.’

  ‘But he’s in pain, Danny.’

  ‘It’s not real pain, Bobby.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Do you want him to suffer?’

  ‘He’s going to die anyway.’

  ‘Then maybe you should do something to help end his suffering, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Bobby, it’s my game. Not your game. If I go back and kill him then I might get killed, and then it’ll be your fault that I got killed, and then I’ll be in a rotten mood with you. More than the one I’m in now.’

  ‘You in a rotten mood with me?’ I ask.

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘Dan, what is it?’

  ‘Please go away, Bobby.’ His pressing becomes rapid. Someone comes out from behind a parked car and shoots his character in the head. The control flies across the room. ‘Now look what you made me do!’

  It takes a lot not to react to his tantrum. I adopt my calm parental voice.

  ‘Danny, what’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing. I got killed.’

  ‘No. What happened this weekend?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Danny!’

  My voice rises. My head tilts. A veritable teacher in the making.

  ‘She wouldn’t talk to me,’ he says, flicking his chin upwards.

  ‘Who? Bel?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘Mum wouldn’t talk to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you mean she wouldn’t talk to you?’

  ‘I tried.’

  ‘Speak sense, Danny. How did Mum –’

  ‘I tried to ask her things, but she wouldn’t joke or anything.’

  ‘Was she sleeping?’

  ‘No, her eyes were open.’

  ‘Could just be the medicine, Dan.’

  ‘I even tried to do a lie-down cuddle, but she didn’t cuddle back.’

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘Just made grunts and noises.’ Danny retrieves his control and examines it for collateral. ‘She sounds like a baby, Bobby.’

  I stand mute and redundant. I need to rub my forehead, but I don’t want to show him my own distress.

  ‘It’s what’s happening to her, Dan. Don’t blame Mum,’ I say.

  ‘I’m not blaming her, I just want everyone to stop being tragic. I just wish that pain in the arse disease would piss the fuck off.’

  ‘I wish it would too.’

  ‘But it’s not going to, is it?’ he says. I glare at the computer. Everyone’s lying dead on the screen. ‘Is it, Bobby?’

  ‘Don’t think so, mate.’

  ‘That’s not what you’re supposed to say.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dan. I don’t want to lie to you.’

  ‘So don’t lie to me then.’

  I sway on my feet, dry sweaty hands on jeans. Suddenly my heart’s fizzing. I’m hesitant and nervous.

  ‘Danny?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If I could make the disease go away, I would,’ I say. ‘Honestly, I would. I’d do anything.’

  ‘If I could kick the fuck out of it, I would,’ he says.

  ‘I’d help you.’

  ‘I’d stamp on its head until it wasn’t moving.’

  ‘I’d break its legs.’

  ‘I’d saw its toes off.’

  We snigger at the fantasy of the actions. It’s OK for Danny: he’s sheltered by his fictional world while I’m shackled to the reality of Mum’s request. The opportunity to be part of Lou’s compassion squad grapples with me.

  Danny’s sitting there and I can hear myself playing out the conversation:

  You and me, Dan. We could do it together.

  You think it’ll work, Bobby?

  If we’re calm and organised it will.

  And Mum really wants this?

  More than anything, mate. More than anything.

  And she’ll be one hundred per cent free from all the pain in the world?

  Like a kite in the wind.

  I play it over and over.

  My body is heating up.

  Blood slushes inside me.

  I want to ask him to help.

  You and me, B
obby?

  You and me, Dan.

  How?

  I sit on his bed. Danny hates people sitting on his bed. I smile warmly at him.

  ‘Maybe one day you and me will make that disease piss the fuck off,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, one day,’ he says.

  And I’m about to open myself wide and tell him, to share it all. But, I can’t do it. Not now.

  I spring to my feet.

  ‘Anyway, let’s speak later, mate. I have to help Bel clean up the shit hole downstairs.’

  ‘Well, don’t blame me,’ Danny says.

  ‘Who else is there to blame?’

  ‘It wasn’t just my fault.’

  ‘I believe you, idiot features. Thousands wouldn’t.’

  I ruffle his hair and exit the room, nerves pummelling my body.

  The Exposer

  After school the next day I’m showing Danny how to make a stir-fry. We chop, cut, chuck.

  ‘You just bung everything in the pan,’ I tell him.

  ‘Cooking’s a doddle,’ he says.

  ‘Now stir like crazy.’

  He stirs like crazy.

  We gorge on the food.

  ‘I like stir-fry, Bobby,’ he says, noodles snaking out of his mouth.

  ‘Great, you can make it next time.’

  I’m scooping up the remaining peppers on my plate, mouth gaping, fork on the move, but something stops me before I can snaffle it. The sound from outside is unmistakable. It’s a sound that comes with its own smell. I don’t need to look out of the window to see who it is; I know a vintage Vespa vroom when I hear one.

  ‘Who’s that? Who’s that?’ Danny says when the door goes.

  ‘Just a pal,’ I say.

  ‘Bel?’

  ‘No, a pal from the group I attend.’

  ‘Why they here? What do they want?’

  ‘I’m going to find out, Dan. You stay here.’

  ‘You going to bring them in?’

  ‘Maybe, I don’t know.’ I get to my feet. ‘Wait here, I’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘We’ve no stir-fry left,’ Danny shouts after me.

  I inflate my lungs before opening the door. It’s the first time we’ve seen each other since … we last saw each other. How do I react? Do I smile? Go straight in for the man hug?

  ‘Hi, Lou,’ I say, going directly for the hey-I’m-cool-as-fuck approach.

  ‘Bobby,’ Lou says, assuming the same conduct. He stands there looking like a bloody Morrissey lyric or something. This could be a hey-I’m-cool-as-fuck stand-off. His snazzier clothes give him victory.