by John Young
“God yeah,” I say.
We both scramble onto the shelf. Emma opens the window and jumps out first, then helps me to the ground. We both laugh, but only for a second.
“Hey Taytie, you sneaky wee fud. Where do you think you’re going?” I turn to see Skeates, who spotted our clumsy scramble and sprinted round the block to cut off our exit. “I’m not finished with you yet, Taytie. Not by a long way.”
“Skeates, leave him alone,” shouts Emo.
I look for ways to escape, or teachers to help us. There’s no one, so I prepare for defence. Teachers are like policemen and buses; they’re never there when you need them. Surprisingly, Skeates doesn’t have violence in mind. He’s planned something much worse.
“I’m not going to touch a hair on his head. I just want to ask about Connor’s family. I’m concerned about his welfare, given that his dad is a criminal.” He grins.
“My dad’s a good man!” I yell, in defence of Dad, even though I don’t know whether he is or not. Facts would suggest otherwise – something that Skeates is about to use against me with great effect. Even though I see it coming I know I can’t avoid how it will make me feel. And you know what? I believe he might be right, because my mum has been so vague about Dad’s crime and punishment that she’s got to be hiding something. Her attempts at plausible excuses echo around my head as I hold Skeates’s gaze.
You’re too ill to go to see him, love.
It would only disturb him seeing you.
It would hold you back seeing him and not being able to bring him home.
He will be out soon enough.
We can’t afford the trip down to Glasgow. Where would we stay?
He doesn’t want you seeing him behind bars.
I’ve searched every corner of the Internet for details of crimes in Stornoway but they must have had a non-reporting order. There’s nothing in there. All to protect me, the sicko kid, I guess. Well, telling me would have been better protection. Instead, they gave Skeates the ammo he’s about to fire at me right now.
“If your dad is such a good man, why is he locked up in prison? They only lock up bad people, rapists and murderers and the like. I bet he’s a child killer, Taytie.” Skeates is on a roll and it hurts enough to stop me in my tracks. He must know the doubts at the back of my mind. He knows what matters to me. He walks towards me and I wonder when the punch will come. It doesn’t – he continues his taunts.
I goldfish him and hobble backwards, absorbing his hurtful truths.
“Nine years, Taytie, that’s a long term for any crime. Yer dad must have been a really, really nasty scaffbag. You should be ashamed.”
“He’s a good man!” I yell. “I know he is.” As I shout, I lamely try to believe it myself. Mum says that Dad is a good man. I’ve accepted her view even though I know she’s not the most reliable witness. I try to picture one of the fun memories I have of my dad kicking a football on Portobello beach, in Edinburgh. I even have a photo to prove it.
“They only lock up the real psychos in Shotts!” He laughs loudly and watches me walk off. He knows his questions will haunt me, and they do. All the way home.
What if Skeates is right; that my dad really is an evil scumbag? Would I hate him for what he did, if I knew? Was his crime so callous and depraved that he deserved to be imprisoned for years? The silent fart, the thing I had managed to ignore for so long, in spite of its toxicity, had been sniffed out by Skeates. My dad has been in prison since I was six years old. He remains locked up, therefore he has to be, as Skeates described him, ‘a really, really nasty scaffbag’. Right? No doubt about it. The only logical explanation for why I was never told about what he did, and why the media never reported the story, and why nobody in Stornoway has a word to say about it, is that his crime must be unspeakably awful.
Still, I can’t believe that my dad is bad. The few memories I have of him are immense, powerful and full of love. Fun on a beach, playing football in the park, climbing a rock. It must’ve been a mistake, someone messed up. They do that in the Justice System, their cock-ups are always on the telly. Some day I will find out what happened.
For now, I’m just glad it’s Friday and I have the weekend to mope over Skeates messing with my head. I wish he had just hit me.
***
I walk home in a gloom with Emma. Even she looks chirpier than me, which is saying something.
“Hey Connor, why does Noddy have a bell on his hat?”
“Dunno.”
“’Cause he’s a tube!”
I want to laugh but barely manage a limp smile.
“What does a clock do when it’s hungry?”
I have to admire her perseverance and begin to laugh even before she tells me the answer, because I know it’ll be really corny, and because she’s trying, and because the most miserable person at school is trying to cheer me up!
“It goes back four seconds!” She giggles at the crap joke. “You know? Back for seconds?”
I stop laughing when I hear the answer. “That’s even worse than I expected.”
We both burst into giggles.
“I wonder whether Mum will be home from work,” I say as we recover from our laughs.
Mum works shifts in Inverness and is due back today, but she often works late or does an extra shift. If she isn’t about I’ll watch some of her old films.
As if on cue, there’s a text from her. I read it as I walk along.
“Oh shite!” I say.
“What?”
“Mrs MacDonald!” I don’t need to add anything else.
Emma laughs as I read the text aloud.
“Hi luv, I have asked Mrs MacDonald to call in with some milk and something for your dinner. Don’t forget your meds. I’ll be back tomorrow. They want me to work the Friday night shift.”
“Have a great night, Connor.” Emma is still laughing.
Our neighbour Mrs MacDonald is like an ex-headmistress – you don’t call her by her first name. I don’t know it anyway; everyone refers to her as Mrs MacDonald. In fact, I think her given name is Mrs. She’s kind and well meaning, but she’ll fuss about the house for ages.
“I’d better go before she installs herself. Maybe I can head her off at the pass. Bye!” I say and add pace to my limp.
I open our front door to see a bag of cleaning kit. I’m too late. The dirt-and-silence terminator has descended and the rest of the afternoon goes like this:
“Yes, Mrs MacDonald. Thanks, Mrs MacDonald. I’m fine, Mrs MacDonald. My mum is OK, Mrs MacDonald. She likes to be busy, Mrs MacDonald. No, she won’t have a breakdown, Mrs MacDonald. The Hoover is broken, Mrs MacDonald. You don’t have to get yours, Mrs MacDonald. (She nips home to get it anyway and sucks the life out of the carpet.) Yes, I have remembered my medications, Mrs MacDonald. That’s been blocked for ages, Mrs MacDonald. I just keep the door shut, Mrs MacDonald. Yes, it’s mingin in there, Mrs MacDonald. We don’t have a rabbit any more, Mrs MacDonald. Those are raisins not rabbit shit, Mrs MacDonald. Sorry for swearing, Mrs MacDonald. Yes, they are terrible boys down at that arcade, Mrs MacDonald. Shocking news about that boy Jenson, Mrs MacDonald. That’s blood, Mrs MacDonald, and we store dead bodies in there, Mrs MacDonald. Just joking, Mrs MacDonald. I know it smells like it, but I really was just joking, Mrs MacDonald…”
She yammers away to herself in Gaelic, some of which I understand from Gaelic lessons at school, but I pretend I don’t know what she’s on about so that I don’t have to interact. My plan works – she reverts to singing and finishes off her determined housework to the rhythmic and catchy ‘Òganaich Ùir a Rinn M’ Fhàgail’. I hate to admit it, but her voice is good and I have to stop myself from humming along.
Finally, I hear, “As long as you are sure you’re alright, Connor, I’ll be on my way. I’ve left a pizza for you and some milk. I have to work this evening, but call if you need me. Don’t forget your medicines. Bye for now, love.”
The door clicks shut. I lean against it, sighing heavily. Sh
e is exhausting. Don’t forget your medicines. As if I could after the last time. I don’t want to spend the next week attached to a blood bag.
I dismiss her concerns about Mum. Mrs MacDonald is always moaning about so many things, my brain can’t take them all in. When her shifts run late Mum stays with a friend over in Inverness, so she isn’t always here during the week. When she is home, she’s washed out and stressed up. I wish she would quit. She says she needs to keep busy to take her mind off things, and anyway we need the money ’cause Dad isn’t about.
Mum really hasn’t had things easy what with Dad in prison, my sister dying and me on death row, all within the space of a couple of years. The stress of sitting up all night changing my medicines and feed, rushing to hospital and worrying about losing her second child must have been really tough, so I don’t question her about working away. We all know that I’m not out of the tunnel yet – there are more tests and scans to be done – but my prognosis is clearer than it has been for years, so Mum can try to get her life back and I can live in the now.
Speaking of living in the now, I turn on the telly and leave the volume up full while I sort out my evening dose of chemicals. The TV noise is a welcome distraction from being alone, even though it’s only some crap quiz show. I think these afternoon shows are government propaganda to make the population feel more intelligent than they actually are. When the house is empty I always leave the TV blaring to deflect any negative thoughts about being stuck inside on a weekend instead of playing football, going to the gym, sneaking into some nightclub and meeting girls or buying drinks with a fake ID. Instead of kick-starting Friday night with goal celebrations or cheap booze, I get a selection box of prescription drugs.
Well, at least I’m alive, and I certainly appreciate that.
Once every four weeks I receive a goody bag of medicines from the hospital. We keep them in an old biscuit tin. I line them up along the peeling vinyl shelf above the sink in the order of the list I’ve stuck on the cupboard door:
1) Prednisolone
2) Mycophenolate Mofetil
3) Dexamethasone
4) Methotrexate
5) Dexamethasone
6) Prochlorperazine
7) Oramorph
Twice a day, I carefully measure each dosage into a separate syringe and leave them lying in a row on the shelf. I search the cupboards for food before I even contemplate taking the drugs. I’m not hungry; my appetite was lost with the cancer treatment and hasn’t fully returned yet. But I’ll need to eat something sharpish, to take the metallic bitter taste away.
One of the kitchen cabinet doors falls open on one hinge, nearly taking my ear off. Thinking about it, the kitchen really needs a new house. I’m chuffed to see a tin of tuna in the cupboard. I hate the stuff and wish Mum would buy something else, but the fishy aftertaste will overpower the burning acid-flavoured medication. I save Mrs MacDonald’s pizza for later, something to look forward to, even though I won’t eat much of it. It’ll be the highlight of my awesome Friday night in by myself.
I squirt each syringe into my mouth in order, swallowing with a grimace. Then I stuff my mouth with tuna using a fork, and down the lot. The whole process takes ten minutes of gagging and fighting reflux, an effort well worth going through as the alternative is not worth considering.
It took a few shocks for me to believe that the meds were important. For a while I refused to take them because of the taste and because I wasn’t convinced they were working. Then I ended up back in hospital with a tube up my nose. Twice that happened, each time rewarded with a week on a drip. I never miss my drugs now. I’m a ticking time bomb without them.
At least Mum now knows I won’t miss them. I feel a certain responsibility to take care of on my own health and welfare given that she’s away earning money to pay the rent and stuff. It’s not like I can get a part-time job to help out, but I still feel bad. I’m fifteen after all: in some parts of the world kids like me are the main breadwinners for starving families. Adults here think that fifteen year olds are thicky headcases, but we know a lot more than we’re credited with. I’ve faced death – how many adults can say that?
I sometimes pretend that I’m Dr Jekyll or Walter White or some superhero taking his drugs to suit up and go kick badasses – pretend this whole medication palaver is my secret way of being unique. It’s certainly different, although not super-powered – all it does is keep me alive. Actually, that is kind of super. In fact it’s flippin’ awesome. A few years ago none of this treatment was invented and I would’ve already been incinerated or chopped up for research.
That’s funny, I’m a terminal optimist. Ha bloody ha.
My mum called me that once a few years ago when I asked to go on holiday to Spain. ‘Connor, you’re a terminal optimist,’ she said, in tears because at that time I wasn’t given much hope of surviving the following six months, let alone a summer holiday jumping in the sea. I burst out laughing – it was a good joke, for Mum.
I wander into the front room and search through the old DVDs. I select The Shining, which I’ve seen a billion times, but ‘angry man with an axe smashing up a hotel’ sums up my mood tonight. I pop the pizza in the oven and flop onto the sofa. I think about phoning Emma but I don’t want her thinking I fancy her, even though I do. I’ve convinced myself that if she knows I like her she’ll run a mile every time she sees me. I mean, who would want to be stalked by a limping halfwit?
As Jack Torrance descends slowly into insanity, my own mood darkens in sympathy. I brood about sitting in alone: Mum away; sister dead; classmates out enjoying themselves, playing football or athletics. There aren’t many places for your mind to go in a gloomy council house on a dull Friday night. And mine quickly returns to Dad.
It isn’t new for me to get angry about Dad. In fact, I always think of him like he’s some sort of universal cure that would make everything OK – if only he would return. It’s nine years since I’ve seen him. Ten years since we moved here from Edinburgh. I had my sister Erica, Dad and my health back then. I have none of them now. We were happy before, I think. But what would I know? I bet all kids think their lives are awesome when they’re five. I bet all kids think their parents can do no wrong.
I hate the people that took Dad away. I’ve always believed it was their fault, not his, that he isn’t here, even though, if I thought about it, it would be obvious he must have deserved it. Skeates is right and the truth hurts.
I stew on Skeates’s words and let them braise my skull. By the time Jack Torrance axes the bathroom door in, I’m firing the wrong way on all cylinders.
“WHHHHHYYYYYYYYY?” I scream and kick out at nothing.
The radio gets it against the wall. I thump the wall too, like it’s to blame.
I scream and ignore the pain in my hand and bang my head slap slap slap slap.
The wall bangs in response to the racket I’m making.
I bang and kick in reply. I can’t stop. I kick anything, everything. And nothing. No one is in the house to care what noise I make.
The neighbours thump the wall again. The guy next door works shifts and his head will have only just hit the pillow. We live in a terraced council house: typical three-up, two-down, with thin walls. I would feel guilty about waking him, except he’s a prison officer and I imagine that he’s giving my dad grief for nothing. This, I know, is rubbish, because he works in Inverness Prison and my dad is in Shotts, near Glasgow. It’s a symbolic hate. The guy is no doubt a decent hardworking man who lives to love people, but my hate makes me feel protective of dad again. So I keep banging and shouting abuse for good measure. I feel the bruising this time and my head hurts.
Yep, you’re right, I am selfish and stupid. Shouting at the next-door neighbour is like kicking the cat because the dog barked. It does nothing to solve anything. Eventually my adrenaline runs out and I head to the kitchen, having trashed the room and bruised my head. I now feel a right bawheid as I’ll have to tidy it all up before Mum gets back tomorrow.<
br />
Skeates’s mental torture session clearly got to me – more than if he’d put me in hospital. Patient psycho bullying is his speciality. I imagine Skeates at a job interview:
‘Mr Skeates, tell me, what skills can you bring to the table?’
‘I can give a good beating. Am no scared to get one neither. I’m the big dog, you know? I smell insecurity and weakness. And best of all, I’m patient. I find that weak spot. I water and feed it like a seed, build it up and watch it grow, until it festers and hurts inside. I watch the bubble expand to bursting point, then I lance it.’
I bet you the future loss of my virginity that Skeates will be ready to lance the bubble come Monday.
Chapter 3
Fantasies of Love and Hate
The noise of our front door slamming shocks me from daydreaming about being a secret agent skiing down a hill. Despite what I’ve said before, fantasyland can be a great place to live when the real thing is crap. In dreams I do all the things that other people take for granted.
“Hi, love!”
It’s Mum, smashing! No more Mrs MacDonald! I get out of bed and go down to greet her. She hugs me, which, being Scottish, I resist even though I love a hug from Mum. If I was Italian I would hug her back. I grin at her and I see in her smile that she knows the score.
She has bags of food so I help her unload and make her a cup of tea while I babble away about school. She takes off her big woolly coat and I hang it up on her peg in the hall. We have four pegs: Mum, Dad, Erica and me. I’m happy seeing Mum’s coat hanging beside my normally lonely Harrington jacket. My one’s black with a red tartan lining and I bought it with Christmas money Mum gave me. She said it was from Dad, which isn’t true ’cause he won’t have any money locked up, but I believe her story anyway so it’s my favourite. Erica’s name badge is still there, although she’ll never use it again. And Dad’s? Well, that will be filled soon, according to Mum. She’s been saying that for well nigh a year. Perhaps I’ll ask her to look up the definition of ‘soon’ before she tries to soft-soap me again.