Oskar Blows a Gasket

by Claire Davis

  “Does me knowing the real you make you nervous?”

  “That’s the thing! It would have done, once. But now, it just makes me horny again. And that other thing. Maybe I need a better emotional language repertoire, but bloody everything seems to make me horny. And…I have a craving for green nail polish, but what that means in emotional talk is I am so fucking relieved you know about Simon Le Bon and…me. Who knew telling the truth was so crucial?” He opened his eyes and met Gareth’s in the mirror. The spark started all those months ago in the train station flared. “A love such as ours transcends the monotony and grime of everyday life. You know what I’m saying, Lollipop?” His voice broke.

  Gareth gently cradled Oskar’s shaking head and kissed his neck. He tried to speak, but for a while, nothing happened except intense heat and weird cryinglaughing. “Yes. I think so. It’s the same for me. Can you see the way I’m smiling right now? It’s about big enough to burst off the whole ceiling. No—the world! I mean—wow! I sort of hoped…a lot…but I never…you know.”

  “Good.” Oskar bumped Gareth’s head with his own. They met eyes again in the mirror, and Gareth knew for sure that if he lived to be 150 years old, he would never feel as good as this again. “That’s very, very, good! And have you noticed how I’m much less grumpy? Your good influence is making me a pleasure to be around.”

  “Yeah. For sure,” Gareth lied. He met Oskar’s eyes in the mirror. “Bodicious.”

  “Bodacious! Good. Jolly good! Hurry up with my coffee. Black with one sugar. And a little flower wouldn’t go amiss.”

  “Sure! Is it black with one sugar but really that means white?”

  Oskar leapt up and pushed Gareth onto the bed. “Oh my god, you are shaming me with your mind reading! For once, I shall make the coffee.”

  III

  Chapter 24: In Da House

  Gareth

  Dear John,

  Thanks for the letter. Sorry the USA didn’t work out for you. Actually, you’re wrong about me having issues at college as I am having the time of my life. It’s awesome! I hope that one day you will find some place you can be yourself, as I have.

  It is very mysterious how my money ended up in your bag, I agree.

  John, I have thought seriously about you asking if I can help you out with money to buy a ticket back to Britain and then put you up in my room. I’m sorry, but the answer is no, and no. I just don’t have that kind of money. Like all students, I have a loan to cover living costs, but I also have taken a part-time job as a hospital porter. My friend Tony—also a porter—told me about the job, so I applied and started the other week. I think it’s important to pay my own way and learn some skills at the same time. Maybe you could do the same?

  You will be pleased to hear my dad got in touch. Remember we were being followed in Lincoln? It was my dad trying to find me. I guess you know that. I can’t tell you how much happier I am now that he’s around.

  I enclose a pre-paid phone card. Why don’t you call your family and ask for help?

  I hope you have a great life,

  Be happy.

  Gareth

  P.S. I also enclose a compass. It brought me luck. I hope it does the same for you.

  ****

  Oskar

  He glared at Jim in the car mirror, who grinned back because he was an irritating bastard. “Been to prison before, have you? I see you’re eyeing up my coat again.” Going on the visit with Gareth and 007 was not turning out to be the finest idea; he’d thrown up twice and had to sit through excruciating renditions of Jim torturing pop songs. “You might as well talk to me, son. It’s still bloody hours to Wakefield prison yet, and Gareth’s fallen asleep.”

  “Yes. I am aware of the vicinity of the establishment. And yes, I do have a liking for that coat,” he said coldly. There was no need to be saying the P-word, not that he was ashamed.

  Horrific and antisocial snores filled the car in waves. He elbowed the sleeping form. Instead of waking, Gareth snuggled closer and then rested his noisy head on Oskar’s shoulder.

  “If it’s too far, you can feel free to drop me at the nearest train station.” He tried to edge his body away without discovery. Gareth uttered a soft gaspmoan, which went straight to Oskar’s jeans. Being at the whim of his physical desires was really turning into a gigantic pain in the butt. Completely perpendicular to his will, he nestled—nestled—the slumbering idiot. He fought the urge to hold the gigantic paw. Fought it as long as was humanly possible.

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” Jim assured. “No. Mike would throw a fit. ‘Take him right up to the entrance,’ he said. I expect it’s a big thing—visiting your mum in the slammer. Nothing to be ashamed of, now.”

  Oskar bit back a retort revealing he had, in fact, been to prison many times before, visiting one or other of his errant family members.

  “Yeah. I’m terrified,” he said flatly. The craving won. He held Gareth’s huge paw. Held, cuddled and made tiny circles with his thumb.

  “No need to worry! They do frisk you a bit, but that’s all. Anyway you might like that.” Jim laughed far longer than was necessary, not seeming to need any affirmation of his humour, which was shit. “Uniformed chaps with truncheons!” Clearly, such asinine mirth did not merit anything but a swift eye-rolling.

  “Whatever.”

  “Expect you’ve got lots to talk about with Mum?” Jim nodded eagerly, and it was then Oskar switched off and went into a daydream about telling her he’d sorted out the flat and she had nothing to worry about. He envisaged the relief on her face—almost good enough to dampen the other voice reminding him of his promise to Simon Le Bon to stop telling so many lies. It went round and round, and in the end he fell asleep against Gareth with conflicting messages and lust fighting for dominion in his brain.

  “Hey. We’re almost there,” a voice said in his ear. “I’ve got such a boner.” Oskar tried to stay asleep as long as possible. “You look so cute when you’re asleep! Did you know you pout when you fart?”

  “I do not!” he said indignantly. “I never fart.”

  “Are you feeling OK? I wish I could come in with you.” Gareth kissed his ear. “I’ll worry about you.”

  “It’ll be fine,” he snapped. It wouldn’t be fine. Mum would look at him, knowing he’d thrown her over to go to college.

  “Sure it will!” Gareth continued with the syrupy voice Oskar had no use of, none at all. “Look at me?” Something warm pushed up Oskar’s chin until he was facing the irritating—but handsome—boy who smelled of oranges. Oskar wanted to say cutting words to smash up the smile.

  “You smell of orange.” Instead, he allowed Gareth to cradle his jaw and kiss him on the lips until his own lips opened and all the viciousness vanished. He even let him stroke his neck and under his chin on the sensitive part which so often led to confusing, urgent feelings. “I’m scared,” he whispered. “What if she hates me? I know she hates me.”

  “No-one could hate you.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like where I come from.” The politics and warfare on the streets, late at night. The way a whole estate had turned on him and Mum after Morris. “Once you’ve let them down, it’s forever. Or what if I hate her? Sometimes I hate them both. Fucking drugs. Why couldn’t they leave me out of it?” More than sometimes. Night after night of tossing and turning, thinking about the way Pink’s parents sent letters and called her every weekend.

  “I don’t know what it’s like to be you. But I know families aren’t always Winnie the Pooh.” Gareth carefully uncurled Oskar’s fists. “Most of my life, I’ve wished I had different parents—normal ones like kids on TV.”

  “Me too,” Oskar whispered in case Jim could hear. “Winnie the Pooh didn’t have any parents. Just a little pig and a miserable bastard donkey.”

  “Exactly. See what I mean?”

  “Your logic is, as always, dodgy. See you in a bit, Lollipop.” Oskar smiled briefly like a man condemned. He climbed out the car, leaving phone, ke
ys and most of his identity on the back seat. “Thanks for bringing me.”

  “We’ll be right here, son.” Jim winked. “Good luck.”

  Oskar nodded, and then set off to the prison to be checked in.

  ****

  “Mirror, mirror,” he growled at the pitiful strip of scratched reflective sheeting stuck to the wall of the prison visitors’ toilets. No soap and only a few sheets of loo roll, in case the visitors decided to plan an escape using both. Morris used to say lack of soap was a deliberate ploy to ensure visitors were as smelly as the people locked up. The memory brought on a fit of tremors.

  “Bugger and piss.” He wet the papers, scrubbed at his eyes to remove make-up liberally applied that morning, and became increasingly nauseous. Thankfully, no-one came in to witness the humiliating transformation from Oskar to Oscar. Voices from the packed waiting room filtered in like faraway reminders of another world, making the bathroom a deserted box of loneliness. Something was amiss, like waking suddenly in the night without knowing what day it was or where you were.

  He rubbed a little too hard, enjoying the abrasive sensation on the sensitive skin under his eyes. Still it was done too soon. He gazed desperately at the shitty mirror, trying to remember what he used to look like before going to college. Before getting away. Years ago, Mum had banned make-up of all kinds and any hair products deemed too feminine. Too late, he noticed the multicoloured hair moussed to form a halo of perfection around his head and shoulders.

  “Oh my god!” Mum would have a fit. Of course she’d caught him a few times, and then he’d got a leathering. Boys had to look like boys.

  On the floor lay an old elastic band. He picked it up and tied back his hair so tightly it pulled his eyes into the shape of almonds. Another quick glance at the mirror revealed an ordinary and boring boy beginning to hyperventilate. It was a face he recognised, but still didn’t look right. From nowhere, he recalled Gareth smiling shyly the first time they met in the train station. An intense ache like homesickness pierced his terrified heart.

  “He’s just outside,” he told himself crossly, but it didn’t work. A wave of misery was making its way up from deep inside, and nothing was going to stop it. Oskar stepped into the toilet cubicle and locked the door.

  He sank to the floor—dirty as it was—and rocked silently. The layers built since leaving home vanished. He was nothing. Face bare, hair scraped back. Jeans, t-shirt and a pair of flat canvas shoes borrowed from Pink. No accessories, no hope.

  “You can take the boy out of Brinsted Gardens but you can’t take Brinsted Gardens out of the boy.” Even his voice sounded different—nasal and whiny instead of cool beans. Alone, with no-one to look at him like he was something. To acknowledge his position in the world as ex-Brinsted. A survivor. Someone different.

  Because he wasn’t. Oskar Braithwaite was nothing. Keep your head down, don’t show yourself up, accept your lot in life and shut the fuck up. Oskar Braithwaite worked in a café during the day and did hair at night. A few years ago, he’d helped Morris run a mobile DJ, and that was all his accomplishments wrapped up in fish-and-chip paper.

  The voices from the waiting room next door began to fade. It was time to go and see Mum—be the son she thought he was but could never be. Not in ten million years. He slapped his cheek hard. Would the son of Simon Le Bon cower in a bog? No! He would get his arse out there and face the music. Fess up to buggering off to college and abandoning the flat.

  He slipped back into the waiting room to stand at the back of the queue to the security checks. He tried to remember Simon’s face. As the queue got shorter, the face changed into Gareth. He got through the last few steps by thinking of what they could do later—pizza, watch TV, listen to music with Pink. Suggesting they wouldn’t do those things—ever again—was unthinkable and crap and shit with bells on. Mum couldn’t force him back to Brinsted Gardens. She couldn’t.

  His hands shook.

  It wasn’t too late to run back to the car.

  “Hungry like the wolf,” he accidentally said out loud to the guard. “Afternoon.”

  “Eh? Belts? Watches?” The security guard indicated the frisk area. “Arms above, please.”

  It should have been an affront to personal dignity instead of another welcome few minutes to postpone the visit. Once, when he’d arrived as a kid, all visits had been cancelled. “Visits going ahead? I heard they keep getting held up?” he asked hopefully.

  “No delays today. You can go through. Give your name and details to the officer on the desk.”

  Oskar breathed deeply and went through to the next stage. After the final checks, he would be through the double doors where the cons would be waiting. Whatever happened, he wouldn’t let her bully him like she had Morris. Not this time.

  Mind racing, he sat where the guard indicated and read each poster.

  From the corner of his eyes, he saw her before she saw him. Mum wore the uniform faded blue joggers and top like everyone else. She smiled and some—but not all—of the worries disappeared. A smile meant possibilities. Maybe she didn’t know about the flat, or college. Didn’t hate him like she hated most people. Wouldn’t shout like he was lowlife. Or the absolute worst—make him say bad things about Morris. He wouldn’t. He probably wouldn’t.

  Oskar stood with arms straight down, sure the whole room stared.

  “Hello, love. Took your time.” She kissed him briefly on the cheek, the most physical contact they’d had in years. From across the room, other people hugged and laughed. “What have you done to your face?” Mascara residues. “It’s all red.” She sat opposite, even though there was room enough on the orange sofa for them both.

  “You all right, Mum?” Wince-inducing nasal notes.

  “Not bad. You brought any chocolate?”

  “Yeah.” He handed over the chocolate, bought from the waiting room. “Snickers and Maltesers. Just what you like.” When he was a kid, she’d always allowed chocolate after school, saying it would make him grow up to be big and strong.

  “Thanks, love.” She unwrapped the first in under two seconds and began shoving it in. “You having any?” He shook his head. “Still on a diet? You’re too thin.”

  “So how’s it been? Any courses?” She looked better than in years. Had put on a little weight in her face, softening the hard edges. “You look well.” Disloyal voice trembles. Without the make-up and heels, he wouldn’t be able to hold it back. “I worry about you.” It was his mum, still his mum, after Morris and Aunty Kath, court and the kind of chaos that rips a person apart. The strangeness following him since the waiting room moved from the shadows into a form. Not quite a ghost and not quite a person. Morris. Morris had been on every prison visit throughout Oskar’s childhood, making him laugh and giving all the guards silly names. Mum watched him silently fall apart. Morris…Morris would have known what to say to make it all right.

  “What did you go worrying about me for? This is home from home, you know that, love. Some of the guards knew me from last time.” She spoke too loudly, like always when she was trying too hard. Brash. Her smile tight, as near as they would ever get to acknowledging the months apart. “What you done to your hair? It’s minging.”

  He grabbed the ponytail and grimaced. “Accident with the hair colours. Yours needs a seeing-to.” He indicated Mum’s black roots. “I’ll give you a proper makeover when you get out.”

  When she got out.

  She looked directly at him, through the lies and falsehoods concocted at the hostel. He was just Oscar Braithwaite from the Brinsted Gardens estate, same as any other kid. No K in his name was ever going to change that. At that minute, he missed Morris so badly it consumed everything else.

  “Don’t cry, love.” She moved to sit next to his shaking body and clumsily enveloped him.

  People would be watching, like always. It was entirely possible some of the other families knew him from Brinsted. You could never get away. Funny, really; it had only taken four months to forget and feel free f
rom accusing eyes. He felt, rather than knew, there would be no going back. Going to college and abandoning their home was beyond the realms of forgivable. Morris used to say everything was temporary and that was why you had to live for the moment.

  “Sorry, Mum.”

  The months apart had made him forget. Forget that sometimes she hugged and was nice. In between binges, she wasn’t a monster. Despite everything, he loved her, and so had Morris.

  “People will be looking,” she scolded, but it was gentle. So far, she was calm.

  “Sorry.”

  “What have you been up to, then?” He heard the edge to her voice, and then remembered something else. Even from upstairs in his bedroom, he’d been able to catch the subtle difference in her words when she was losing it. He’d forgotten how exhausting it was to have to listen all the time for clues. Morris and Oskar had a secret code they’d used: a cough meant warning one, two coughs together was severe, and a scratch of the head meant Oskar had to go upstairs straight away. Do not pass go and never come back down until the shouting ceased.

  “Well?” He lost all powers of speech. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” She looked away. Oskar’s heart beat faster than the speed of light; too fast to weigh up pros and cons of trying to lie. “College?”

  “No,” he whispered.

  “But you couldn’t be arsed to tell me? Sending me letters about home and the café when all the time you’re pissing it up the wall at school.” Her voice got louder and louder. “You’re a lying little bastard. What are you?” Blankly, he watched the guard walking over. If she hit him, Oskar wouldn’t fight back. He wouldn’t even run.

  “You OK, Mary?”

  “Yes.” Mum breathed too hard. She hadn’t hit Oskar, though; it was only Morris.