by Limmy
He asked her to listen. Just listen. The curtain would never be going back into the bedroom, she didn’t have to worry about that. That was an absolute guarantee, that was a promise. But he didn’t want to just chuck out a 400-quid curtain.
Maggie spat out some of her Alpen. ‘Four fucking …’
He told her that maybe the curtain was just in the wrong room, that’s all. Maybe it wasn’t meant for the bedroom, maybe it was meant for the living room. It suited the living room better, he thought, and asked her if she agreed.
‘Four hundred fucking quid,’ she said. ‘Is that what you said?’
‘Aye. But it’s nice, you’ve got to admit it’s nice.’
‘Four hundred quid, for a curtain?’ she said, looking at it. It did look nice. It was a nice curtain. ‘What the fuck were you thinking, Iain?’
‘Is it nice?’ he asked. ‘It is nice, though.’
And it was nice. It was white and spotless. It was smooth and silky, and thick. It looked like when you see adverts for milk chocolate or cheese slices, and they show a jug of milk somehow being poured into the chocolate or cheese slice, to tell you how much milk is in it.
It was beautiful.
‘But it isnae worth 400 fucking quid,’ she said. ‘And that’s just for one. It’s only one curtain. What the fuck were you thinking, just buying one curtain? I’ve only just realised that.’
‘I know 400 is a lot,’ he said. ‘But it was reduced from 899. And I got it for 400. In fact, I got it for less than 400. It was 399.’
She considered the bargain, but there was a bigger fucking issue than that. ‘Iain, it tried to kill me.’
‘I disagree,’ he said, sitting down on the armrest of the couch. ‘I disagree. I don’t think it was trying to kill you, but there’s no doubt that what it did was wrong.’ He looked at the curtain. ‘But please, Maggie, just give it one more chance. Just give it a chance in here, in the living room.’ He glided his hand around the room and said, ‘I think it’s a living-room curtain’.
Maggie looked at him, then looked at the curtain, and back to him. Then she walked out with her cereal.
A few days passed without any issues. Maggie continued to get her full eight hours of uninterrupted sleep in the bedroom. When they spent time in the living room, the curtain didn’t cause any grief. It looked like it was a living-room curtain after all.
Then one night, it went for them.
They were watching Masterchef, and it went for them. Iain wrestled it to the ground again, until it stopped.
‘I want it out,’ said Maggie. ‘And I fucking mean it, Iain. I want it out.’
‘Maggie,’ he said. ‘It cost 400 fucking quid, I’m not going to just chuck it out. You don’t just chuck out something that costs 400 fucking quid.’
‘Then give it away,’ she said. ‘Or take it back. Or sell it. I don’t fucking care, but whatever you do, I want it out now.’ She pointed to the living-room door. ‘Now, Iain. Right out the house.’
He couldn’t take it back. He thought about it after the first attack in the bedroom. He tried taking it back to where he bought it, that wee shop that was down that lane. But when he walked down there, the shop was gone. It was like there never was a shop. He reckoned he must have went down the wrong lane, but it didn’t matter. The fact was that he couldn’t take it back.
Iain walked out the living room, carrying the curtain. And then he came back later without it.
‘Is it out?’ she asked.
‘Aye,’ he said.
‘Where is it?’
‘It disnae matter where it is.’
‘Where is it? Is it in the house?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s in the bin, all right?’
‘The outside bin?’
‘Aye,’ he said.
He sat down to watch the rest of Masterchef, and saw that she hadn’t paused it for him.
‘Gonnae rewind it?’ he asked.
‘No.’
A couple of weeks passed, and it was good. A good night’s sleep every night, and no interruptions to the telly.
Then, one night, they got a couple of pals over for something to eat. Their pals Michael and Leanne.
Iain told Maggie to put her feet up in the living room and he’d take care of the food. He’d give them all a shout when they could come through to the kitchen.
Maggie sat in the living room with Michael and Leanne, catching up. Leanne said the living room was looking nice, and Maggie was about to mention the episode with the curtain, but she decided not to.
After a while, Maggie came through to the kitchen to see how things were going and to see if Iain needed a hand. She saw that he had laid the table with four plates and a basket of bread in the middle, it was looking good.
‘Oooh,’ she said.
Under the plates and basket of bread was a tablecloth she hadn’t seen before. A white tablecloth.
‘Wait a minute,’ she said. ‘Is that that fucking curtain?’
‘Keep your voice down,’ he said, placing the knives and forks next to the plates.
‘I asked you a question. Is that that fucking curtain?’
‘Aye,’ he said. He was trying to act calm like it was no big deal ‒ he was going to stand his ground with this one. He carried on laying the cutlery on the table like this was going to happen whether she liked it or not.
She pointed at him. ‘You said you binned it.’
‘Look, I’m not binning a 400 quid curtain.’
‘You’re a fucking liar, Iain. You said you binned it.’
He stopped and waved his arms at the curtain on the table as it lay there peacefully. ‘Look at it, Maggie. It’s fine, all right? I tried it the other day when you were out.’
‘I want it out,’ she said. ‘Get rid of it right fucking now, Iain. We’ve got people over.’
‘No, Maggie. I tried it the other day, and it was fine. I don’t even think it’s a curtain. I think that’s what the problem was. It isn’t a curtain. It’s a tablecloth.’
Michael and Leanne walked through from the living room. ‘What are you two bickering about?’ said Leanne. She looked at the table and said, ‘Oh, very nice, very fancy. Nice tablecloth.’ And she gave it a stroke.
Maggie nearly stepped forward to snatch away Leanne’s arm, but Iain raised a hand to ask her to wait. And when nothing went wrong, Iain gave Maggie a smile that said, ‘See? Everything’s fine.’
They all sat down and had dinner.
Maggie wasn’t sure. She was tense all throughout the first course. All throughout the soup. Waiting for something to happen.
By the time she was halfway into the main course, she had fully relaxed. Maybe Iain was right, and it was a tablecloth after all.
Then they all had dessert. Iain had made them all cranachan. Everybody said it was like something you’d get in a restaurant, except better, because there was more whisky.
‘Is there enough cranachan in my whisky?’ laughed Michael.
They sat around chatting for a while. Leanne and Maggie chatted about somebody they knew, and Iain and Michael chatted about Tom Middleton and what they thought about him.
Then, all of a sudden, the tablecloth went ballistic. Something set it off. It jerked around and flapped, pulling the table with it, buckarooing the bowls and plates and glasses and knives and forks in every direction, like a rodeo bull.
Leanne screamed as she was hit on her cheekbone with a fork. It almost went right in her eye.
Michael was banged on the chin with the table as it flew in the air, causing him to bite his tongue.
‘Owwww, fuck!’ he said, crouching away and heading for the door. ‘I bit my fucking tongue.’
They all headed for the door, then slammed it behind them. They could hear the sound of everything in the kitchen being smashed to pieces.
Maggie hit Iain over the head with the palm of her hand. ‘You fucking …’
She turned away, then turned back to hit him again and again, until Leanne had to
stop her.
‘Maggie, stop!’ she said, grabbing Maggie’s wrist.
Maggie stormed away into the living room, and Leanne followed. Michael followed Leanne. He turned around just before going into the living room to look at Iain, to say sorry for leaving him alone in the hall, but he had to go with Leanne.
The living-room door was kicked shut, hard. Iain could hear them talking and he wanted to know what they were saying, but he could barely hear a word over the sound of the wreckage in the kitchen.
Maggie shouted, he could hear that. He heard her shout ‘That guy!’
Iain couldn’t see her from out in the hall, but he could hear from her voice that she was starting to cry.
‘That fucking guy! Fucking idiot!’
He felt bad. He felt really, really bad. He knew he’d fucked up, big time, with that curtain.
But he didn’t want to throw it out. It cost him 400 quid. Down from 899.
He didn’t know what she was telling them in there, but you don’t just chuck out a 400 quid curtain, especially when it’s worth more than twice that.
In My Bin
I’m sitting in a bin.
I’m not doing it for a dare. There isn’t anybody around that I’m showing off to. I haven’t woken up here after a night on the piss. This isn’t something I’m going to tell everybody about later and they’ll all pat me on the back and tell me I’m a legend.
It’s quite sad, actually, I think.
This bin I’m in, it’s my bin. It’s my wheelie bin. I’m in my wheelie bin, in the bin area for my block, around the back. It’s two in the morning, I’m freezing, and I’m crouched down in my bin with the lid shut.
I’m standing up a bit now, and pushing the lid open and having a look out. I’m looking up to the back of the building, the back of the tenement building that I live in. I’m looking at flat 3/1, where I live. And now I’m looking below my flat, at flat 2/1, where Nick stays. Nick’s probably all wrapped up in bed right now, all cosy.
I’m thinking about just getting out. Maybe I should just get out and go upstairs and get back into my bed as well. Maybe have a shower to get rid of the smell, then get into my bed and get all cosy.
But when I think about it, I know that if I do that then I’ll just be right back to square one. Nothing will change. So I’m crouching back down and shutting the lid and I’m just going to sit here.
Part of me wants to get out again, to just open the lid and get out, because this is madness.
Or is it?
I’ve got every right to be here. Wouldn’t you agree? I’ve got every right to be here, because it’s my bin. I should remind myself of that.
And that’s what this is all about: the fact that it’s my bin. Mine. This is all about how it’s my bin. And it’s about Nick from downstairs.
Let me tell you about Nick.
He moved in about three months ago. The whole thing actually goes back further than that, about two years, just after I moved in myself. But what’s brought things to this, to me being in this bin, is Nick.
Three months ago, I noticed the downstairs neighbours were moving out. Students. I was glad to see them go. There had been some hassle with them a while back, some hassle regarding them putting stuff in my bin, but it was looking like things had been sorted out. I was always a wee bit on edge, though, that it would start up again. So I was glad to see the ‘For Sale’ sign go up.
And then, a while later, in moves this Nick. He moves in with his son, a wee boy. I don’t know what age the boy is, I’m not good at knowing ages. I can tell you that he’s at the age where you’re old enough to walk but you’re still wearing nappies. And I know that Nick’s son wears nappies because there were nappies in my bin.
In my bin.
There were used nappies in my bin, and nobody else in the block wears nappies.
I thought that maybe it would be all right. Maybe Nick would be the sort of person I could talk to. It would be a fresh start, with somebody new. The thing with the students downstairs was that they had been there before I moved in, and I didn’t feel confident enough to go up to people who were there before I was. Mind you, me and the students had been living in the block for so long that it didn’t matter who had moved in first, so that wasn’t the only reason. The main reason is probably that you just get used to it. You know how it is, if you don’t say something in time. The longer you leave it, the harder it gets.
But I thought that maybe with this new guy downstairs, there would be a new way of going about it. It wouldn’t be that big a deal to say something. Maybe Nick would be a warm type of person, who might even say something first.
That’s not how it was, though.
A few days after Nick moved in, I bumped into him on the stairs. I said hello and introduced myself, and Nick told me his name. I told him that I stayed in the flat upstairs, and I was smiling and apologising in advance for the sound of me walking about on the floorboards. I wasn’t being serious. I was being half serious, because you can’t help making a bit of noise if you stay upstairs. Everybody knows that. So that should have been Nick’s cue to go, ‘Oh, don’t worry about it, mate.’
But Nick wasn’t like that. Nick just said, ‘Aye, well I hope there isnae any thumping about, I don’t want my son getting woke up.’
He didn’t say it in a threatening way, he didn’t come right up to me, forehead to forehead. But he was serious. There was no humour in it at all.
And d’you know what I did?
I said sorry.
I didn’t say sorry for any thumping I’d already done, because I knew I hadn’t done any, I always take my shoes off when I get in the flat. I walk about in my socks, so that I don’t make a noise. I must be the only person in the block who does that. Even when I knew the students had moved out from downstairs and the flat was empty, I still made sure I took my shoes off when I got in, just out of habit. So there I was, apologising for something that hadn’t happened, and something I wouldn’t be doing in the future. I know I said I apologised in advance, but I said the second apology like I had actually done something wrong. I’m pathetic.
That’s the type of guy I am. And why I’m in this bin. This bin that smells of Nick’s son’s nappies. Even though the bin’s empty, except for me, there’s still the smell of Nick’s son’s nappies. The bags must have burst at some point in the past. Bags that were never supposed to be here.
This is my bin.
I thought it had stopped with the students, but then it started up again with Nick.
About a week after Nick moved in, I came down here to the bin area with a bag. The bin area’s at the rear of the back garden, and there are seven bins. There are seven green wheelie bins, one for each of the eight flats, but with one missing. And that had caused a bit of hassle in the past. In the past, nobody had written their flat numbers on the bins, even though each bin was supposed to be for one specific flat. I knew which one was mine because it was the one that was brand new, because I had to buy one when I moved in. That’s right. If you think seven bins for eight flats was bad, there used to only be six.
I thought it would be obvious to everybody which bin was mine, but people would dump their bags in it anyway. So I got a pen and wrote my flat number on the lid, and then it stopped. Well, almost stopped. The students that lived downstairs, in the flat that Nick’s now in, they’d still sometimes dump their bags in my bin, even though my flat number was on it. They didn’t do it as often as before, but they still did it.
But then they moved out, and I thought it would stop there. But then Nick moves in. And a week after he moved in, I came down here with a bag. I opened my bin, the one with Flat 3/1 written on it, and instead of seeing an empty bin, it was full. I tore open the bag to see if I could find an envelope, to see an address. Not that I would ever do anything, not that I would take the envelope to the person’s door to show that I’d caught them, because I don’t think you’re allowed to open somebody’s bin bags, even if they’re in your own bin.
But I wanted to know.
I ripped open the black bin liner at the top of my bin, and accidentally wiped my finger in something wet. I pulled my finger out and looked at it, thinking that the stuff on my finger was maybe porridge or mushroom soup. But when I smelled it, I boked. I looked in the bag, and saw that I’d put my finger in a used nappy.
Think of how that would make you feel.
I shut the bin lid and looked at my flat number on it, in case it wasn’t clear, but it was as clear as crystal. The lid was a bit dirty, and the black pen didn’t stand out that much against the green, but it was clear enough. Flat 3/1. Nobody else had their number on their bin, and yet here were somebody else’s bags in my bin. And they were Nick’s bags, because nobody else had a wean, nobody else wore nappies.
But I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I can’t quite work out how you could make a mistake like that, putting your bags in a bin that have an address on it that is so clearly not yours, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt anyway. Or more accurately, I just told myself to try and not care. I had to do that. I could feel acid in my stomach. I could feel my heart getting sore. I took the bin bag back up to my flat and I dumped it in the cupboard until my bin was empty again. But it started to make my flat stink.
I tried to chill out, I didn’t want it all flaring up again, I had to tell myself to just share and share alike. But it’s hard to be like that when your flat is stinking because somebody else is using your bin. But I told myself to share and share alike. At the time I thought that Nick could turn out to be a friend, or, at the very least, a friendly neighbour. But he made it clear that he wasn’t interested in being either, he made it so fucking hard.
I bumped into him about a week later, on the stairs, and this time he was carrying his son. I said hello to Nick, then I said hello to his son. I said it in that baby talk way. I said, ‘Oh, hello, and what’s your name?’ That was hard for me to do, because I don’t really know how to talk to weans, I don’t have one myself, I’ve never known one. But I made an effort. I wanted to keep things light and friendly, because I had something to say about the bin, and I thought that saying hello to the boy would be a good way to start. So I said hello, but the wean said nothing back, which was all right, weans tend to do that. They sometimes just look back and wait for their mum or dad to tell them it’s all right to speak to the stranger. But did Nick do that? Did Nick tell his son to go ahead and talk to the nice man from upstairs? No. And you’d think that Nick would at least then tell me his son’s name, having heard me ask. You’d think he’d be friendly towards the man whose bin he dumped his son’s used nappies into. Or not even friendly, just polite. You’d think that, would you? But he wasn’t. He isn’t interested in friendship or politeness. He just kept on walking down the stairs with his son.