by John Young
“You said your dad was a goat!” I shout. “You told me he used to beat your mum, that’s why your mum didn’t give you his name, why she legged it and left you here. He,” I point to Dad, “did you a favour. You should thank him.”
He’s silent at these few home truths.
“And if he was such a hateful family-beating piece of shit, why are you here destroying us, destroying me?” I’m welling up with anger and sorrow all at once and my adrenaline is beginning to run low, I feel weak and whiney. “I’m your only friend. You said as much. I’m the closest thing you have to family.”
“He was my dad!”
“And you hated him!”
Silence. I see his face change, his body loses some tension.
“He was my dad,” he repeats in a whisper.
Then the real shock of the day happens. I can see water in his eyes. The fight hasn’t gone and my guess is that he’s putting everything into stopping his tears from hitting the floor. He puts his head in his hands, his body shakes. Any other time I would take the piss. Now? I don’t know what to say or do. My hands sweat and my mouth is so dry I can’t swallow.
My parents haven’t moved, Dad looks at me and then at Skeates. I flutter my hands about to indicate that he should leave Skeates alone. For a few moments the air is heavy and silent. I never thought I would see Skeates’s front of steel disappear. Only for a few moments. A few moments of quiet before we all jump with shock.
Bang!
Our front door crashes against the wall and the room darkens as two big blond twins fill the frame. Soapy hangs behind them like they’re a shield.
“Who the hell are you?” shouts Dad.
Chapter 34
More Common Denominators
Today is full of surprises, because my earlier wish for a common denominator is suddenly granted. In fact we don’t just get one, we get three: someone must have seen Skeates coming here. Soapy and the two big blond ducks stand in our tiny house, swinging their shinty sticks.
Dad stands but doesn’t move to fight. I’m waiting for him to put these idiots in their place, waiting for that ‘hard-to-find’ temper of his that he was talking about earlier. Thankfully he doesn’t find it – it wouldn’t take much to have him off parole and back in Shotts.
Skeates hasn’t moved either.
“Well, well, well,” says Troll Number One. “What have we here? Skeates and his monkey friend.”
“Well, well, well? What are you like?” says Skeates. His head is up and I’m so glad to see that his face is pasted with his good old cheeky grin. The front has returned.
“You’re dead meat, Skeates,” says Soapy, sticking his head out from behind the Trolls.
Skeates laughs. “What are Donald and Daffy Duck going to do?”
One of the twins swings his shinty stick up in an arc to tap the palm of his other hand. I see my dad move forward and I panic: no way is he going back inside. Especially now that I know I’m not long for this world. Skeates, Dad and I have joint interests and I attempt to act on them – but as usual, I do it without thinking.
“Get the hell out of my house,” I say, stepping between Dad, Skeates and the Two Ducks.
I don’t know who’s more shocked – my mum, my dad, Skeates or the group of hoods. Whatever, I’m now the centre of attention.
“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Piss – off – now!”
The Trolls hard-stare me and laugh.
“What’s with the fancy dress, monkey boy?” One of them says, taking in my beanie hat, big woolly jumper and orange glasses.
I ignore him and stand between him and Skeates. “If you want to use those on Skeates, you’ve got to get through me first.” I nod back to Skeates.
“Yeah, so? You’re due it anyway.”
Mum yells, “No!”
“Connor—” Dad warns, but I carry on speaking.
“Maybe, but attackers of wee boys with cancer won’t stand a hope in Barlinnie, will they? You’ll be marked men.”
They seem confused. For the first time they look properly at the tube coming out of my nose. I pull off my hat and my baldy head glints brighter than Skeates’s blade. I have no idea whether locked-up crims are likely to hate guys who attack death-row kids. Nevertheless, the twins are thinking about it and, judging by the looks on their faces, they agree, so I hammer the point home.
“I’m dead anyway. I’ve had my last chat with the hospital. The next doctor that sees me will be a pathologist, regardless of what you do. But if I die by your hands, your lives will be hell.”
They compute this slowly.
“In many ways that suits me – a lot quicker and less painful than chemo and six months of slow death. Kill me, kill my cancer too. So come on, piss off now or do your worst.”
The house is painfully silent as the options are weighed.
“What’s it going to be, boys?” I say.
Skeates laughs behind me.
Sirens in the distance spook everyone.
I sigh, remembering Emma saying she would call the police. “Here come the polis, along with your last chance to escape. Or are you opting for prison as a sick child abuser?”
The sticks wave about as the Trolls scarmble to escape before the police arrive.
“Your monkey won’t save you next time, Skeates,” says Troll Number Two at last. Soapy urges them out the door and they scarper.
I turn to Skeates, trying to resolve the two versions of him in my head: the one that chatted with me in the stolen Vauxhall, and this uncontrolled knife-wielding version. Look for the empathy that I know he has, the friendship that came to the fore that evening in the car. I wait anxiously for the humour that grew whilst we were away, when he no longer needed to display his anger like a uniform or status.
His face doesn’t change. Then he grins and looks at me. “Did you see that?” He lets out a manic laugh, still charged with aggression. “I told you they were drippy, didn’t I?”
I don’t move. Skeates still has the knife.
“You should have seen yourself, Connor, that was massive.” He laughs again. I look for warmth and can’t find it. “But it doesn’t change a thing, Taytie. My dad is dead.”
“I did my time, Skeates,” says Dad.
“But you didn’t do your time, did you?” shouts Skeates. “You got away on a culpable homicide charge and got out early. Not to mention you’re still here, you’re alive. My – dad – is – dead!”
“And so is Erica. My daughter, your friend’s sister, dead too,” says Dad.
Skeates hesitates.
“You can’t blame a man for being angry,” Dad continues, “just like you are now. You can’t blame a man for defending his family.”
There’s silence for a few moments. Police cars arrive outside.
“You take this further, Skeates, they’ll probably give you my old cell in Shotts.”
Skeates looks through the window as the police climb out of the car. I’m shaking, my throat is parched and my nasal tube itches up the inside of my nose, at the bridge. I twitch it, like a rabbit, to try to ease the itch. It doesn’t work.
The front door bangs. Skeates doesn’t move. We stare at each other.
The door bangs again, louder this time.
“It’s going to come off the hinges,” says Mum.
“I’m glad you’re here, Skeates,” says Dad, surprising us all, and clearly trying to distract Skeates before the police have to be involved. “I wanted to thank you for looking after Connor all that way round the country. By the sound of it, you gave him the time of his life.”
I look at Skeates and notice a tiny change, imperceptible to anyone else, not something that would register on any kind of scale, but a change nevertheless. He hasn’t moved, but he’s changed, I can feel it, like a charge has gone from the air.
“Connor hasn’t had it easy, and the way he talks about you… you’ve made an impression on him, on all of us. It was an adventure of a lifetime… A chance my boy is unlikely
to get again.” Dad sniffs.
“What does he mean?” Skeates asks me.
I don’t reply.
“What do you mean?” he asks Dad.
Dad says nothing. Mum grabs the letter from the hospital. It flutters noisily in her hand as she passes it to Skeates. She stands away from him, out of harm’s way. Skeates reads the letter.
“An appointment?”
“Room Nine,” I answer.
Skeates hangs his head as he realises the meaning of that. He looks embarrassed and exhausted. The hand holding the knife drops to his side. He gives it to me.
“I don’t want it,” I say.
The door bangs again. Dad grabs the knife and stuffs it under the sofa cushions. Mum rushes to the door but it opens with a crash before she gets to it.
“Easy, we have a sick boy here,” she says, as two police officers come running in.
The sergeant takes stock of the room. “What’s going on here? We heard there was a man with a knife?”
“Nope, just some kids mucking around,” I say quickly. “No harm done.”
The police look at us in confusion. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, officer,” says Mum. “So sorry to waste your time. The gang from the arcade must’ve spooked someone down the street.”
“Well,” says the sergeant, clearly looking around for reasons to stay, disappointed to have got all excited for nothing. “Mind if we ask a few questions so we can ascertain what may have led to this misunderstanding?” He pulls out his police notebook, which even in the circumstances looks comical to me.
“I didn’t think you lot used those any more,” I say, thinking they would use recorders or phones.
“Our PNB’s are vital bits of kit, son. Now tell me what the commotion was.”
Dad and Mum go through the motions, all pleasant and innocent. Yes officer, no officer. The policemen recognise me and Skeates from the local paper and we all shake hands. After a few surreal minutes they leave.
Nobody says anything because there’s nothing to say.
Eventually Skeates makes a move.
“Never quit, Connor,” says Skeates, half-heartedly. “Never bloody quit.” He stands up slowly and walks out the door, leaving the knife where it is.
Chapter 35
Room 9
I’m chuffed when Skeates surprises us all by arriving at my door this morning. Emma was already there waiting. She wasn’t going to miss it.
“I only came because maths is crap,” Skeates says with a grin. He turns to Emma in mock surprise at her lack of dark make-up. “Bloody hell, girl, you’re looking good!” He nods to me and grins. “Nice one, Connor!”
“I can’t believe that you’re back at school,” I change the subject pronto.
“What’s that noise?” asks Emma.
“What noise?” asks Skeates.
“Sort of flapping,” she says, smiling. “Look, pig wings!” She points to the sky and Emma and I burst out laughing,
“Funny haha. Just ’cause I’ve been in school, doesn’t mean I’m back.” He winks at us.
My dad comes down the stairs with a grim look in his eye, but shakes Skeates’s hand firmly. “Good to see you, Skeates.”
“Aye right,” says Skeates.
Mum and Dad didn’t argue about Skeates and Emma coming along for the trip to hospital. I thought they might grumble as it’s not likely to be a particularly fun day out, but they know that my friends will be good support for me. Not that they’re coming to watch the Room 9 meltdown – no bloody way – but they’re along for moral support on the journey to Inverness.
Dad looked annoyed when I asked if Skeates could come, but he didn’t say anything. In fact he told me he’s relieved that I didn’t hate him once I discovered the truth. It probably felt good for him to get something that big off his chest after all these years.
Skeates and I chatted about Dad on the phone once we’d all had a chance to calm down. ‘What’s done is done,’ he said. That was that, end of story. It’s a good skill to have, to be able to forget and move on. Like when we were thrown together in Dachaigh House, which seems like so long ago, and he quite happily forgot about our warring past. Skeates is either all or nothing, that’s for sure.
***
I imagined journeying to hospital for this last chat would feel like being a prisoner on his way from death row to the electric chair. Instead, Skeates, Emma and I ride the ferry to Ullapool laughing like we’re on our way to the fair. It’s as if all the badness has been shelved, and this time together makes me feel alive and normal. I know I won’t have many more days like this, so I relish every moment.
We walk to the hospital from the bus stop in Inverness, my parents in silence in front and the three of us bringing up the rear, chewing the cud all the way.
“So what are your plans now?” I ask Skeates. He’s a flighty bird – the quiet island life won’t suit him for long.
“I’m going to see out school,” he says.
“What? You, conscientious? I don’t believe that,” laughs Emma.
“Aye well, we all have our surprises. Anyway, I don’t want to head off with search parties after me. So, I’ll see out my time in care and get some exams. I’ve a few quid now, so that should see me right until I start earning.”
A big lorry stops beside us, releasing its airbrakes.
“I hate that noise!” Skeates jumps. “It’s like Quint’s nails.” He winks at me.
“I knew it! I knew you would look it up.”
“What are you two on about?” asks Emma.
“Jaws,” I said. “We should watch it sometime.”
Emma smiles shyly.
“He keeps coming out with all sorts of cryptic shit just to confuse me,” says Skeates.
“That’s easily done!” I laugh and he pretends to chase me.
Anyone would have thought the three of us had been best friends for life given our carry on. And that’s the way I feel right now too. At this moment, if I was asked, I wouldn’t be able to recall a single argument or bad feeling between Skeates and me. My selective memory has filtered out all the badness for disposal. Then something worrying pops into my head to prove me wrong, something that’s been on my mind since the incident a few days ago.
“Have you managed to avoid the Trolls and Soapy?” I ask Skeates. Then it occurs to me that there’s only one place he could have obtained money from. He grins that big smile of his, which confirms my suspicions.
“Aye, sure I have.” He stifles a giggle.
“What have you done, Skeates?”
“Nothing.”
“Come off it.”
“Nothing. Well, nothing that wasn’t due. I merely reset the scales. They won’t bother you again either.” He laughs. “That’s for sure.”
***
I could have walked all day talking with Emma and Skeates. But the fun had to end. The nerves rise and the banter stops as we approach the rotating door of Raigmore Hospital. Mum and Dad help me check in at the reception, give the usual info and we sit in the waiting area outside room 9.
I stare with gloom at the smiley face on the door and the ominous lettering as I imagine that the number 9 on the sign is a wee man hanging from a noose.
I’m sandwiched between Skeates and Emma on one side, and Mum and Dad on the other. Mum has made herself up to look her best – lipstick, hair done and good coat. Dad looks like he might throw up.
I try to ignore the buzz of hospital life going on around us. We all jump when a junior oncologist opens the door, rushes out, closes it again and scampers away. She returns with a nurse and they disappear back into the room. Five minutes later, a young couple leave with their daughter. They’re silent, their tears already run dry. I recognise their post-Room-9 demeanour as they shuffle away, helped by the nurse. Mum must see it too because she shifts in her chair and lets out a little whimper. Dad takes her hand, whether for her benefit or his, I’m not sure. No one has spoken since we sat down and the tension spikes e
very time a door opens or a machine bleeps, which is just about always.
I tune my brain to expect bad news so that I can handle it with good grace and bravery when it’s doled out. I wonder what my funeral will be like. Mum and Dad will have to organise it, which will be a challenge for them. Mum will make sarnies for the wake. I bet they’ll be bloody tuna. At least I won’t have to eat them. She’ll cook up wee sausages on sticks and make loads of tea. Dad will have to stock up on beers for anyone who comes round. I can’t think of anybody likely to come except Mum, Dad, Skeates, Emma and Mrs MacDonald. I chuckle at the thought of a party with that lot. It’s really just nervous laughter, but the others all turn towards me and glare in offence.
I shrug and say sorry, for some reason. I don’t know why – it’s my funeral after all. It’s my funeral and I’ll laugh if I want to. When I think of that sixties song Mum used to play on her birthday, I laugh even more. Mum glares at me. I sober up a bit while I think about what would happen after the funeral, as they drive away from the crematorium with a great release of platitudes:
Och, wasn’t Connor a lovely wee lad?
Aye, he was that.
We’ll miss him.
He’s happier now.
He’ll not be in pain any more.
He won’t need his leg-brace where he’s going.
The amount of chemo they put into him, I’m surprised the place didn’t blow up.
That last one would be Skeates, for sure. He’d make everyone laugh. Then Mum would say something like, ‘He’ll be able to keep wee Erica company’ and the car would go deathly silent. I bet even Dad would drop a tear at that point. Then they’d all go home and press the re-boot button.
We’ve got to get on with our lives.
Skeates will be on the first boat out. Dad will look for work and Mum will go back to her job in Inverness. I think about Emma and tears prick at my eyes. I know now that she really likes me, and I know that out of everyone at school she’ll be the one who misses me most. She’ll be the one who puts the death date in her diary. The one who puts my photo up on her Facebook timeline. The one who does a 10 K run in memory of her friend Connor, who died too soon. The one who plays ‘Don’t You (Forget About Me)’ every time she feels melancholy. The one who eats a tuna sandwich while reading one of my books. I start laughing again at that, laughing tears.