Kiss Her Goodbye

by Allan Guthrie

  He still couldn't determine her mood. Nothing new there. Now she was staring at her fidgeting hands. He wiped his cheek with his palm.

  "I saw this TV program once." She looked at him, eyes shiny. "This woman lost her daughter. Car accident. She said her biggest fear was that she'd never stop crying."

  Joe waited. Finally he said, "What are you trying to say?"

  "Never mind." She lowered her head. "You weren't there for Gemma."

  "What was I supposed to do?" Joe stamped his foot and was annoyed with himself at the childishness of his gesture. He grunted, steadied himself. "I didn't know anything was wrong."

  "You could write a book about the things you don't know." She turned her head to the side and stared at the wall.

  He bent over and squeezed her chin between his fingers, forcing her to face him. She lowered her eyes, of course. Her face was grey, tear-streaked. Quietly, he asked her, "What else don't I know?"

  "I'm being mean," she said, looking at the floor. "Take no notice." Her jaw moved between his finger and thumb. "Shouldn't be too hard for you."

  He let go of her. "I'm going to Cooper's."

  "Fine," she said. "Off to your boyfriend's loving arms at the slightest excuse."

  "Fuck your jealous bullshit." Joe came very close to hitting her. If he stayed any longer he wasn't sure he'd be able to control himself.

  "I assure you I have nothing to be jealous of," she said. "Believe me."

  " 'Bye, darling," he said as he slammed the door.

  FIVE

  If he pressed any harder he'd push the damn buzzer right through the wall.

  A light drizzle dotted the illuminated name panel, which was casting an orange glow over the back of Joe's hand. Just about enough light for him to read his watch. Early yet. One twenty. What was Cooper doing in bed? He released his finger from the buzzer momentarily to wipe his damp forehead. He'd left the car at home and walked over here. Like Tina had said, the fresh air had done him good.

  He felt fine. Clear-headed. Calm. The row with Ruth almost forgotten.

  He stabbed the buzzer a couple more times and then held it down.

  The buzzing added a bass accompaniment to the drunken singing coming from just around the corner. Hearts supporters expressing contempt for their city rivals. If you hate the fuckin' Hibees clap your hands. Judging by the steady increase in volume, they were heading this way. Pretty hard, these football fans, daring to wake up the whole neighborhood. Joe watched them swagger into view. He counted six of them. Five wore maroon and white scarves. The other carried his scarf scrunched up in his hand. The only thing hard about them was their consonants.

  The one with the bare neck spotted Joe. "Clap your fucking hands, Dad."

  Joe didn't take his finger off the buzzer.

  Another one grabbed both ends of his scarf in his fist and stretched his arm above his head. He stuck his tongue out of the side of his mouth, leaning his head to the left. Joe reckoned he could snap the skinny fuck in two and toss one half into Broughton Street, the other into Leith Walk, without drawing breath.

  The rest of the gang dutifully laughed. Then the joker let go of his scarf and started chanting: You're going home in a fucking ambulance. Ah, Joe thought, they'd managed to learn two songs. Immediately the others joined in. You're going home in a fucking ambulance. They pointed at Joe, belting out their tuneless one-line chorus.

  Cooper's voice crackled out of the speaker. "Who is it?"

  Joe said his name.

  "What's that racket?"

  "Hearts choral society." The latch buzzed and Joe pushed the door open. He closed it behind him, muffling the roar from the street as the gang, seeing their opportunity disappearing, charged. Too late. The chance of a bit of sport had gone. He gave the wall a gentle rap with his knuckles and strode forward. One of the little twats pounded on the door behind him. Joe thought about going back, slamming his fist into the noisy toerag's face. But he let it go.

  Cooper lived towards the rear on the ground floor.

  Joe found him framed in his doorway. He was wearing only a pair of black boxers. Not uniformly black. The word, "HUNG", was written in yellow. He was smoking, the thumb of his free hand tucked under the elastic of his pants. "What do you want this time of night?"

  "I need to talk."

  "Since when?" Cooper flicked ash onto the floor. "You read too many books." He raised his eyebrows. When Joe didn't respond, he added, "Pansy."

  "It's Gem."

  Something like concern flickered over Cooper's face. Then he steeled himself, as if remembering who he was, and his face once again adopted its usual bored expression. He took a drag of his fag. He removed his thumb from his waistband and stuck his hand down his pants. For a moment or two he scratched his balls. It seemed to help him make a decision. He said, "You better come in."

  Joe followed him through to the sitting room. "Hope I didn't wake up Gary," he said to Cooper's back.

  "That kid'd sleep through a gang bang."

  "Takes after his dad, then." Joe wrung his hands together. He felt nervous.

  "Run that by me again." Cooper flicked on a lamp and slumped in his usual seat. He dangled one bare leg over the arm of the chair. "Sounded like you were questioning my sexual potency."

  "Wouldn't dream of it." Joe had come here to talk. The problem was, he didn't know where to start. He sat down and said, "Bloke told me about these gadgets I thought you might like."

  Cooper looked interested.

  "Pussy snorkels, they're called. They have these bits that go up your nostrils." Joe demonstrated with his hands. "And these legs that clip over your ears." He touched his ears.

  Cooper looked bewildered.

  "They help you breathe," Joe explained. "When you're muff diving."

  Cooper's face lit up. "Pussy snorkels." He banged his hand on the arm of his chair. "Fantastic. Pussy snorkels. For muff divers." He roared with delight. "These things genuine?"

  "Believe so. Got an address. I can get a couple to try out."

  "Sure," Cooper said. "Fuck me. Have to give them a shot, eh?"

  "Thought you'd be amused." Joe reached over and lifted the glass ashtray Cooper had nicked from the Boundary Bar a few years ago off the table. He held the ashtray towards Cooper.

  "That what you woke me for?" Cooper glanced at the wilting ash hanging from the filter poking between his fingers, and stubbed out the cigarette with a couple of turns of his wrist. "To tell me about pussy snorkels?"

  Joe placed the ashtray back on the table. The cigarette butt still smoldered. "I didn't think you'd be asleep yet."

  "Hard work being a father, Joe." Cooper yawned. "You should know. I mean, Gemma must have—"

  "Gemma's dead." Joe spoke so quietly he wasn't sure Cooper had heard. But Cooper had stopped speaking.

  When Joe looked towards him, Cooper said, "You're shitting me."

  Joe said nothing and looked away.

  Cooper said, "You're not shitting me."

  Joe stuck his head in his hands. When he looked up, Cooper was standing in front of him. Joe stared at the word, "HUNG" and said, "You want to get your crotch out of my face?"

  "I'll get changed. You want a drink or something?"

  "Bring a bottle."

  "I've got some Bunnahabhain."

  Joe stared into his hands. A moment later he heard the sound of clinking glasses. When he looked up Cooper, still in his underpants, was twisting the top off a whisky bottle.

  "I'll do that," Joe said. "You go make yourself decent."

  Cooper shrugged.

  A girl's voice, thick with sleep, said, "What's going on?"

  Joe turned in his seat and raised his empty glass to Sally. "Fancy one?" Cooper's girlfriend was standing in the doorway, wearing only a t-shirt.

  "Hi, Joe." Sally gave him a forced smile. "Give it a miss, thanks."

  Cooper said, "Come on back to bed."

  "You coming?"

  Cooper grabbed her arm. "Just to get changed. My enormou
s pecker's embarrassing Joe."

  On her tiptoes, she leaned her head against his shoulder. "I'm tired, Chicken."

  Joe coughed and began pouring himself a drink. The whisky-glug was a magnificent sound. Full of warmth. Cooper led Sally back to bed.

  When Cooper returned, wearing a pair of black chinos and a faded t-shirt bearing the legend "FILTH" with an accompanying picture of a pig in a policeman's uniform, Joe said, "What's the matter? Couldn't find a chicken t-shirt?"

  "Get fucked." Cooper plunged into his seat. "Pissed off because nobody has a nickname for you?"

  "What's with 'chicken,' anyway?" Joe poured a dram for Cooper and handed him the glass.

  "Buggered if I know." Cooper sipped his Bunnahabhain. "She's decided she wants to call me Chicken."

  "Anybody else called you that, you'd nut them."

  "Sally wants to call me Chicken, she can call me Chicken. It's a term of endearment, Joe. That's what it is." He took another sip. "Matter of fact, she can call me what she likes. One of the benefits of being my son's mother."

  "Fair enough." Joe knocked back his whisky and poured himself another. He offered Cooper the bottle. Cooper stretched out his arm and Joe topped up his glass.

  "So," Cooper said. "What happened?"

  Joe leaned back in his chair. His jaw felt slack. "You know Gemma as well as anybody."

  "Practically her uncle."

  "She wouldn't kill herself, right?"

  "Who knows what makes them unhappy, Joe."

  Sadness swam through Joe's veins, mixing with the whisky. Even his best friend had realized Gemma was unhappy. Joe's fingers tightened around his glass. When it broke, he didn't move, just sat staring at the dribble of liquid, the shards of glass, the small piece stuck in the flesh of his palm. He was amazed at how sharp it was, how little it hurt.

  "I'll bill you," Cooper said. "That's bloody expensive whisky you just wasted."

  Joe plucked the glass out of his hand and dark blood leaked out. He put his hand to his mouth, sucked. Salt and metal.

  Cooper picked up the remote control and turned on the TV. "Bet there's nothing on," he said.

  Joe got up, staggering a little as he went to the toilet. He held his hand under the cold tap. The cold water numbed his hand. Penetrated to the bone. It felt pretty good. He flexed his fingers. The bleeding had slowed. He dried his hand on toilet paper to avoid getting blood on the hand towel, then rummaged in the overhead cabinet. He found a box of Mickey Mouse plasters. Nothing else. Fuck it. Who cared? He stuck a plaster on and plodded back to the sitting room.

  Broken glass still lay on the table. Cooper was watching a car advert. Channel 5. You could tell by the poor reception. "Henry," Cooper said. "Some player." He chuckled. "Va-va-voom," he said.

  Joe trudged through to the kitchen, grabbed some kitchen roll and returned to the sitting room with it. He picked up the glass fragments and dropped them in several sheets of kitchen roll. He mopped up the spillage, carried the parcel of glass through to the kitchen and dropped it in the pedal bin tucked inside the walk-in cupboard.

  It occurred to him that he knew this house almost as well as his own. Straight to the walk-in cupboard. Didn't have to think about it. Scarcely a day past when he wasn't here. Where was the bin at home? It was a moment before he remembered that Ruth kept it under the sink. He thought maybe he should go home. But he felt too weak. Like he'd lost pints of blood. He glanced at his Mickey Mouse plaster. Home seemed like a major journey, a huge undertaking that he really wasn't capable of. Not now. And why should he? That crazy bitch would just yell at him and accuse him of being a queer. Anyway, Cooper had two spare bedrooms. Shame not to use one of them. Or he could just sink into one of those comfy armchairs and nod off.

  When Joe stepped into the sitting room, Cooper looked up and stabbed the remote control with his thumb. The TV screen went blank. "You okay?"

  Joe lowered himself into his seat and paraded the plaster to Cooper.

  "Lovely," Cooper said. "So, come on. What happened to Gem?"

  It took Joe ten minutes to relate the facts. All the while he peppered his statements with threats against Adam. Talking to Cooper clarified where the blame lay. Adam was supposed to look after her. Adam had fucked up.

  Surprisingly, Cooper didn't agree. He said, "Leave it."

  Joe's hand felt stiff. "That your best advice?"

  "There was nothing you could do, Joe. Gemma was unhappy. Nothing anybody could do about it."

  "If I'd spoken to her, found out what was troubling her—"

  "Leave it alone. It's done."

  "Maybe I could have stopped her."

  "You weren't there. You couldn't have known."

  "Adam was. He's to blame. Yeah?"

  "You're drunk," Cooper said. "You're not thinking straight. Get some sleep. Hey, look, we'll talk in the morning."

  "It'll make more sense then, will it? That what you're saying?"

  "Deal with it, Joe."

  "That your best advice? Anything happened to your kid, anything happened to Gary, that's the advice you'd want from me? Fucking 'deal with it?' "

  "Probably not." Cooper shook his head. "Fact is, I'm really shite at this sort of thing."

  "Really?" Joe paused, then he said, "More drink?"

  An hour and four whiskies later Joe left Cooper watching TV and went to bed in the spare room. When his head hit the pillow, he closed his eyes and understood with an overwhelming clarity that his only child was dead. Deny it all he liked, and he would when he was sober again, the loss was incomprehensible.

  He could not allow it to have happened. Jesus, he was sounding like Ruth, for Christ's sake. Adam was the one who shouldn't have let it happen. The man was a fuck-up. Shouldn't be allowed to live.

  Before he fell asleep, it occurred to Joe that maybe Gem had spoken to Adam. She liked him, so it was possible she'd confided in him. Maybe Adam knew why she'd taken her own life. Maybe Joe should speak to Adam before killing him. A couple of questions wouldn't hurt. Yeah, a couple of questions, then he'd kill him.

  SIX

  Joe woke with a sour mouth and a headache a student could brag about for months. He sat up, dangled his legs over the side of the bed and wriggled his toes. His insides felt delicate. Maybe some food — then again, maybe not. The thought alone made his stomach lurch. A drink, then? No adverse reaction this time. Exhaling slowly, he got to his feet, moaned, hauled on his trousers, slipped his shirt on without fastening the buttons and, several minutes later, staggered into the hallway.

  Having managed that, climbing Everest ought to be a doddle.

  He plodded towards the kitchen. Sally was at the table feeding Gary. She jumped when she saw Joe.

  "Oh," Joe said. "I didn't…sorry. I'll go."

  "It's okay," she said. "I didn't know you were still here. Thought you'd gone."

  "Yeah," Joe said. "Yeah. Got some bad news. Got drunk. Crashed out." Explain it away like any normal day. "You know."

  "Cooper told me about Gemma," she said. "I'm so sorry, Joe. Sit down. I'll fix you some breakfast when Cheetah's finished."

  "Couldn't eat a thing." Joe pulled a face and patted his stomach. "But thanks." He watched the baby suck Sally's nipple. "Cheetah?"

  "Look." Sally slid her forefinger under Gary's earlobe. Joe took a step closer. Dark fuzzy hair grew all over the cartilage of the little man's ear. "Remember Tarzan?" Sally asked him.

  "Ah, the chimp." Joe chuckled. "Cheetah. Like it."

  Sally moved her hand and stroked her baby's head, smoothing the jet-black hair across his scalp. "My pet name for him, Joe. Don't tell Cooper. He won't find it amusing."

  "You don't say." After a minute, Joe asked, "Both ears like that?"

  She nodded. "Apparently it's quite common. He'll lose the hair as he gets older. He's only ten months."

  Joe said, "Extraordinary," because he didn't know what else to say. He stood in front of her for a moment, realized he was staring and probably shouldn't be, given what he was staring a
t, and took a step back. He turned towards the sink. "Just get myself a drink, if that's okay."

  "Course it is. How you feeling, Joe?"

  "Like I headbutted a wall." He took a glass from the drying rack. "Guts feel like they've been through a shredder." Filled the glass with tap water. "Apart from that, I'm raring to go."

  "I meant, you know…"

  For a moment he was confused. Then he said, "Oh, yeah. See what you mean. I'm okay."

  "Yeah?"

  He noticed the Mickey Mouse plaster and remembered crushing the glass last night. He peeled off the plaster. The skin round the cut was pale and spongy. "I'm fine." Joe stuffed the plaster inside an empty milk carton sitting on the work surface. A bit of fresh air and the cut would soon scab over.

  "How's Ruth taking it?"

  Glass of water in one hand, milk carton in the other, Joe walked over to the bin. He crushed the carton and disposed of it. "I better go." He raised his glass to his lips and swallowed a mouthful of tepid water. "Cooper around?"

  "Went to the hospital."

  "What's wrong?"

  "Visiting."

  "Doesn't sound like Cooper. Who's ill?"

  "Somebody Strachan, I think he said. Billy, maybe? Do you know him?"

  Joe hesitated. Last night's memories were hazy, but his recollections of the night before last were clear enough. The quilt falling to the floor. The book on origami. Joe swallowed the rest of his water. Why was Cooper visiting the hospital? Couldn't he leave the poor bastard alone? Billy had taken a beating. He didn't need to be tormented as well.

  "Name doesn't ring any bells," Joe told Sally. He returned to the sink, refilled his glass and gulped the water down in one. He felt sick. He shivered. "Gotta go," he muttered.

  *

  The smoke was thick enough to taste. Joe coughed and put his hand to his mouth. He was reminded of the fag he'd had last night. Only a single puff. Fortunately, he still felt too ill to consider having a second drag.

  Rattling his pocket, he approached the drinks machine in the corner. He counted his change, deciding between Irn Bru and Coke. As he spun the money in the slot, a wave of nausea forced his eyes shut. He swore, opened his eyes and pressed the Coke button, expecting as always that nothing would happen. He'd lost count of the number of times these machines had ripped him off.