Now That You're Back

by A. L. Kennedy

This was, and still remains, standard funerary procedure. In a day or two the Aunt would be remembered and packed off in a plywood box to an inexpensive resting-place in a Mouseboks allotment but, meanwhile, the real, financial business of dying was under way.

  After only a few hours, the eager Mouseboks horde bit, scratched, drilled, kicked and sledge-hammered their way into the attic. There, glimmering in the dusty dormer windowed light, were scores of open cases filled with more scores of little cardboard boxes all stacked neatly and bound with elastic bands. Inside these the Mousebokses would find their Money.

  At this juncture several Mouseboks menfolk were heard to pray – something only ever done by Mousebokses who are in the presence of their own certain death or unthinkable amounts of money. The Mouseboks womenfolk did likewise and were heard to weep openly – an entirely novel occurrence.

  In one, huge, spontaneous lunge the cases were disembowelled, the boxes snapped for and torn open ard inside was found:

  Almost nothing at all.

  Fat Mice.

  Dead, happy mice.

  Mouse droppings.

  Mouse processed note dust.

  And one final gathering of twenty-three notes, rusted holes where the old Aunt’s staples had fixed them together, long before.

  The family was not the same after that. Or, to be precise, it was much more like itself than it had ever been before. And it took the name Mouseboks as a constant reminder that nothing in life worth waiting for should ever be delayed for even a moment. Young Mousebokses are also reminded of this one dreadful occasion when courtesy and ingenious locks prevented the Mouseboks Family from getting what it wanted.

  This has never happened again.

  murder:Something else to light the heart. Whenever a Mouseboks is discovered, solitary and smiling, s/he will most assuredly be engaged in meditations upon murder. A Mouseboks, solitary and laughing, will be engaged in meditations upon murdering another Mouseboks. A Mouseboks, solitary and dancing while dribbling helplessly with mirth, will be engaged in meditations upon murdering another Mouseboks for money.

  mysterious additions:Not in themselves supernatural. Simply the ability of any Mouseboks family member to perform any kind of simple or complex arithmetic to his or her financial benefit, notwithstanding circumstances of logic and fairness.

  natural justice: A phrase almost perfectly describing the contents of an unforseeably emptied diving pool. That is to say, something which is not only almost nothing, but also painful. See Bad Joke, Life, What You Deserve.

  night: Hours spent in staying uncomfortably awake. Also natural home of Nightmares, Sneaking Mousebokses, Burglars, Odd Noises and Fears of the Dark.

  nightmares: The natural consequence of sleep. May involve loss of Money or being murdered by other Mouse boks Family members. May also be Waking, see Life.

  normality: See What You Deserve.

  Also a disturbing quality, always to be distrusted in others – particularly those bearing religious pamphlets. Like bad breath, dimples and leprosy, may cause onset of low Self-Respect. See Money. See also, Sex.

  odd noises: Might include the full repertoire of vomiting (including the counter-tenor), spattering whines, ugly crunches, unexpected breathing and sentimental serenades. A kind of informally arranged entertainment to help speed on the Family’s uniformly sleepless nights. Infinitely less threatening than Odd Silences. See Burglar, Fear, Money, Murder.

  odd silences: Almost infallible precursor of attack by Sneaking Mousebokses, Burglars, or other persons engaged in Murder and similar enterprises, Major cause of Fear.

  rules: The Mouseboks Family, like many others, has developed a large number of more or less useful and applicable Rules for Living. Among these are:

  If in doubt, blame Francis.

  Because you are mad, I am not. (Many variants on this theme.)

  Because I think I am mad, I am not.

  Whatever you do, don’t get caught.

  If you do get caught, don’t tell us.

  Love is Godless, God is loveless and everything is as bad as you always suspected.

  Three things never to share: confidences, feelings and second hand swabs.

  Trust is the luxury of idiots and children.

  Betray your children often, and they may learn and grow.

  Fear is the luxury of adults.

  Feed your fears in darkened places, that they may learn and grow and be with you always, for ever and ever amen.

  A life without fear is a life without reality.

  Hating other people will always be healthy and useful, as long as you hate yourself more. It’s fairer that way.

  Ask the family, when you die, to bury you face down in a cast iron coffin and cut off your feet. You’ll still come back and haunt them – everyone does.

  Be happy. See Where it Gets You.

  sex:A good replacement for conversation. (In many Mouseboks marriages conversation has, in fact, never been found necessary.)

  Or good way of meeting strangers.

  Or replacement for any other area of a Mouseboks Family member’s life which may currently be lacking or faintly disappointing.

  Or small word for anything deeply unpleasant with huge and unimaginably ghastly consequences.

  Note that withdrawal of Sex for more than eight hours is not recommended for Mousebokses. See Fear of Psychiatrists.

  self-respect:Exists as the exact inverse of respect held for others. May also be in direct proportion to wealth of Mouseboks in question. See Money. Also see Masturbation. Also see Sex.

  sleep:Last resort of the sadly demented. Or a condition of having exhausted all of life’s possibilities. See Dark, Despair, Lust, Masturbation, Money, Murder, Sex.

  sneaking Mousebokses:A Mouseboks at his/her most comfortable, given the contents of his/her brain, will always appear to be Sneaking. A Sneaking Mouseboks will always be completely silent unless s/he is playing a complicated double bluff which may involve crashing round an occupied Mouseboks household late at night, dressed as a Burglar. See Murder. Such systems of bluff, double bluff and counter bluff can lead a number of Mousebokses into a state of fatal cerebral collapse. See Anticipation.

  supernatural:Belief in the Supernatural is not permitted in any Mouseboks Family member. Supernatural phenomena are regarded as the Last Straw, Normality being bad enough, never mind any further Mysterious Additions.

  thinking:A very flexible word, can have many meanings, including, plotting, nursing Murder in one’s heart, dying, suffering from a felling Fear, a fatal cerebral collapse, a paralysing Lust, or simply indigestion.

  May also be used in the phrase, ‘Go away, I’m thinking.’ See Masturbation, Murder, Odd Noises, Sex. Time and experience have meant that young Mousebokses are now not encouraged to think at all. Mouseboks Family thinking at its most highly developed may be likened to a piping hot iron fist, tucked up in a cosy mitten of electrified brass.

  uncles/cousins/brothers: A kind of cosmic balancing point for imagination and reality – their earthly manifestation is always the exact reverse of the image cultivated by others in their absence.

  Mouseboks Family Brothers never dress in cardigans and waistcoats, do not smoke pipes, or love small children and pets, nor do their Uncles have pockets inexhaustibly filled with fresh boiled sweets, chocolate and peppermints, nor do their Cousins have any discernible loving, altruistic or even minimally human qualities.

  Mouseboks Family menfolk smoke poisonous and illegal roll-ups, dress as they would have been afraid to when they were twenty years younger, cannot be trusted with any young person, or any older person, or any pet of any sex, will borrow and steal money, drink, medicines, pets, spouses and any likely-looking ornaments and will urinate indiscriminately both indoors and out, blaming any resultant distress on whatever small children/pets or passing strangers are available. See Anticipation, Lust, Murder, Sex, Money, What You Deserve.

  what for: A question perfectly describing what the questioner will receive on hav
ing asked it. An example of the neatness and natural economy of Mouseboks Family Thinking. Phrase only used by very young Mousebokses.

  what you deserve: A random but always negative quantity.

  where it gets you: Nowhere at all.

  FRIDAY PAYDAY

  WAITING HERE, WITH nothing to sit on was a bugger. You could sit, if you wanted, on the brick edge of the flower bed, but that would make you dirty; earth and chewing-gum and that. Folk stubbed out their chewing-gum on the bricks, it was disgusting.

  Because of the rain, it was muddy this evening and she would have to watch herself more than usual, because she had on the fawn skirt and the cream-coloured jacket. They were nice, but they showed the slightest thing and she liked to keep clean.

  Later, she would be tired, but just now, she felt very settled and quiet inside. She was here.

  A block of faces came out to the sunlight, coats and hair rising in the breeze and she watched them. She knew how to watch.

  Sometimes, there was a girl who was a dancer. This station must be near to where she lived. It was only a guess, but she ought to be a dancer. You could see in the way she walked, as though clothes were unnecessary. She was too thin, but she had a lovely face and, if she was stripped bare naked she probably wouldn’t look even a wee bit undressed. Her skin would be enough, better than clothes.

  It would always be a good night if you saw her. The dancer was lucky.

  The faces passed more quickly than you would think. That was always the way. From the top of the steps until they reached her, she could count to seven slowly. Up to nine and they were beyond her, crossing the road and turning, going away.

  No one had stopped this time. No one had really seen her, or hesitated. But they would. It was early yet, and the dancer hadn’t come.

  It was funny how people could tell why she was waiting. In the way she could tell the dancer was a dancer. It was the same. Some people would see her waiting here and they would be able to tell.

  At first, she had only noticed them, noticing her, and hadn’t known why, or who they were. Now she could recognise all the types before they had moved from the shadow of the entrance and walked past the poster for young persons’ travel cards. Some of them did nothing. They looked at her or looked away, smiling, frowning, pretending she wasn’t there. Some of them did what she needed. Needing wasn’t hoping or wanting, but if they did what she was needing, then that was enough.

  By the time it was fully dark, the first one had come and gone. They had walked together to the car park and stayed in his car, without driving away. Then she walked back alone to the station and stood. She waited.

  Twenty pounds, ten minutes. He had been English, which she preferred. The Arab-looking ones had more money, but they frightened her. Scots were always somehow rougher, although she was Scottish too.

  She was Scottish and here was London, Whittington’s place, fucking Dick’s place, but it didn’t make much of a difference – most people she met didn’t seem to come from here. They were all strangers together.

  It did feel different, though. Out in this bit, the houses were all small with their own tiny gardens, too tiny to be any use. White walls and square, little windows looking over grass like green paper and stupid dots of flowers – all of it only there to make a point. The people walked past her in the street and didn’t like her, but she wasn’t sure of why that was. They might be able to tell that she was Scottish; they might not like her waiting. They should have been nicer to her, really; she was only wee. And a stranger. Folk were dead unfriendly here.

  Of course, this was a Friday night and the amateurs were out – just school kids making money for the weekend. She didn’t like to wait near them – get messed up. Soon she’d go into the station and ride to town. The town was more like Glasgow – a proper city. Big, glass buildings and hamburger places and lights. Very bright, but very strange where the lights were and very black over everything else. She just dreeped down in between the two. The black to hide and the bright to show. The city was very ideal for her lifestyle.

  Going down the escalator, she passed the dancer who looked tired.

  The underground could be scarey. Not because of people – because of itself. She didn’t like the push of wind when the train came up to the platform. She didn’t like the noises. Even in the Glasgow underground, which was wee, she had been scared and this one would go where that fire had been – all those people underground and burning – like the coal in the shut-down mines. She closed her eyes as the carriages slid beside her. They opened their doors.

  MIND THE GAP.

  Sometimes, that was a tape-recording, but sometimes it was a real person, trying to talk like a tape-recording, she’d noticed that.

  Inside, when it started moving, she sat away from either end, in case there was a crash, or else she stood near a door and held on with her feet apart which made you more steady, even with heels.

  She wasn’t frightened often. Sometimes they would ask her if she was scared. Scared of them. If they wanted her to say so, she would tell them she was, but she wasn’t. For a person of her age, she was very brave. For a person of her age she was fucking older than anyone she knew.

  The Hotel Man had believed she was scared of him, but that was just because she let him; it wasn’t true. Not really true. Also, she’d known he would have had to make her frightened if he hadn’t thought she was frightened and she’d known he would like to do that. Just for peace and quietness, it was best if she made him think she was already scared.

  She’d known he was going to be that way from the beginning – breathing and looking at her and trying to make her afraid. He came to her room in the morning on the fifth day she was there and said she would have to pay her bill or clear off out of it. He shouted and spoke about policemen and what they would do. Send her home, or lock her up and bodysearch her.

  Locking up would be better than home. The same, but better.

  Whenever he spoke to her, the Hotel Man breathed funny, through his mouth. He looked at her and breathed the way her mother had told her she ought to if she had onions to chop. If you breathed through your mouth, they wouldn’t make you cry.

  The Hotel Man breathed like you should for chopping onions when he told her about the polis and asked about her money and what could she suggest she ought to do. In her silence, he watched and breathed. Nobody was crying then and when she did, the following day, she was crying because of her mother, not because of him or being scared. She couldn’t help crying, she was sad. She knew she would never be as good as her mother was now. Her skin would never be as nice, or her fingers – her Ma’d had clever hands. She couldn’t even cook, it didn’t work. It didn’t taste good. It wouldn’t matter if she practised, there would always be something missing from what she did and now she wouldn’t be able to practise any more. Cooking had seemed dead important then, she didn’t know why.

  The Hotel Man was stupid, he hadn’t understood. He was just satisfied with believing he’d made her cry. But he couldn’t ever do that, wouldn’t know where to begin.

  Coming up out of the station, the wind was rising, growing unpredictable. Different parts of a newspaper were diving and swinging in the air and there were whirls of smaller rubbish scraping the foot of the walls. It felt like something starting, maybe a hurricane again.

  The last hurricane in London had come when she was still in Glasgow. In school, they’d had to write about it and she’d been sad because of all the ruined trees. Her father had said there’d been a hurricane once in Glasgow, but nobody’d cared.

  That was all in the autumn, after the third time she’d run to other places and before the fourth. The fourth time, she’d made it to London and the Hotel Man.

  He’d been like her father. Only he’d called it testing the goods when he did it and he’d made her take him out of herself and rub him. He’d put it in her throat so she’d thought she would die, couldn’t breathe, didn’t know how to manage yet. Her father had been more sleekit. H
e’d climbed through the window from the street one afternoon and showed himself to her by accident on purpose. That was badness, she just had to accept that there was badness in people, like that.

  Their sitting-room windows were opened right up and into the street and she could see other folk she knew, by their windows, sitting on the pavement or standing in their rooms. Her father was wearing shorts and trainers, nothing else, and he sat astride the window frame and smiled at her, let his shorts ride up.

  It didn’t seem right that all those people were there, just beyond the window.

  Father called it having a cuddle and said it was her mother’s fault. He’d used to do this with her mother but then she’d gone to somewhere else and he still needed someone because he was a normal man.

  From then she’d always wanted to be somewhere else. It made you need a different place to be, getting stuck with a normal man. Then you got a different place and you were still wrong, because you were wanting a different time and to be a different person.

  This was payday Friday, end of the month, which was usually the busiest time. After the fifth or sixth, she had a wee sit and something to eat. The gale was getting worse. It wasn’t cold especially, but some of the gusts were so strong that when you faced them, you couldn’t breathe.

  Watching through the big glass panel with her coffee, she saw everything turning unsteady, losing control. It didn’t feel dangerous now she was out of it, just weird. Like being drunk without drinking.

  She had a choice of places to go to for a bit of peace: chicken places, or pizza places, hamburger places, all kinds of places. She preferred to go where they sold doughnuts because doughnuts had no smell. If you kept them in the napkin, your hands stayed clean and when you’d finished, your mouth was sweet. Folk didn’t mind a wee bit sweetness on your lips. If you smelled of grease and vinegar, curry sauce or something, you’d get nowhere. Not with the ones who noticed these things and those were the ones you should want.

  She had seen women talking to men they met in the doughnut place, but you couldn’t do that, they might not let you in again. She wouldn’t do work here, anyway, this was her place, where she could rest. That was a decision she’d made. She could have let ones take her in here and let them look like they could have been her father or her uncle – these would be ones who had thought she looked hungry, or cold, or wanted feeding up. They would take her here and feed her, be her daddy for a while, and then they would take her away and be strangers again. They were probably really poofs or something. She preferred to be here on her own.