‘So!’ I said, louder. ‘So!’
‘Darling!’ he cried. ‘What is it?’
‘You!’ I was screaming now. ‘You!’
He stared, as if nothing was coming through, the hot mist gone black. I dropped my voice to stone.
‘You. I have found her knickers … everywhere and I’ve been out. There has been no one else here. Lola, Lolita, is that your game? You both plot together, hide things from me.’
‘Darling? What are you—’
‘You know what. Monster.’
His eyes. The way that they opened wide, their thousand-minute calculations; the way they glinted with a new light, the next moment extinguished. Her dad.
‘What’s wrong with you, Darling?’
His mouth closed and something in him slumped as if puppet strings had been cut. Then he walked out of the door.
Thomas was not in our bedroom. Where?
I could just take Stevie and go. But then in he came, still dressed in yesterday’s black jumper, holding what looked like whisky, no rocks. Five-something a.m. The glare of artificial light was building; our whole lives at that moment looked unreal, over-exposed.
‘You’re still here,’ he said.
‘I’ve been here all night,’ I said. ‘You know that.’
He looked through me. Dangerous.
‘I’m going now,’ I said. ‘So don’t try and—’
‘Go,’ he said.
I stalled. Then he turned and left our bedroom. I rushed in, pulled a suitcase out and started pulling everything into it: tops, bottoms, shoes, mismatched underwear; all a mad dash.
It was killing me. Killing me to have to hurry without a sound. A flash of mirror showed me my face, crumpled and damp, so much dirty satin. I dragged the case to the door, ran across the landing and attacked the lock on Stevie’s room with its key.
A hillock of duvet.
‘Come on, baby, please, time to get up.’
No sound. I pushed at the unmoving bump.
Still nothing. A drop of my forgotten fever splashed down, soaked into cotton:
‘Stevie? Stevie, Stevie!’
A stirring. ‘Nnnn.’
‘God, I thought you—’
I pulled him into my arms, got the KAFOS from the floor and, still shaking, started to strap him in.
‘Nah, Mummy. No!’
The door swung open. Thomas was standing there with our suitcase.
‘Thought you might need—’
‘We don’t need anything’ – I rose to heave up the suitcase – ‘from you.’
I kept on with the KAFOS, Stevie all the time wailing.
‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’
‘Nothing, sweetness, come on.’
‘But why are we, Mummy?’
‘For God’s sake, Darling, at least let him—’
A dam burst. ‘Don’t you effing tell me what to do. You! You effing—’
‘I need the loo, though, Mummy.’
‘This is so … don’t, just don’t, woman. Listen to yourself—’
‘Oh, I hear me. I hear me thinking—’
‘Mummy!’
‘How could he? Who is he, this man I married? What has he done? Why did he—’
‘Mummy!’
A hissing, water. I looked down and saw the urine pooling at Stevie’s feet, soaking his KAFOs, his pyjamas. I grabbed and lifted him.
‘For God’s sake, Darling,’ he said again. ‘At least change him before you go!’
‘Out, Thomas. Get out!’
He backed away, a slight stumble, turned and went.
‘Sorry,’ I said to Stevie. ‘Come on, let’s change you. Sorry, I’m so sorry …’
I did everything to make him clean and dry, dressed him in his softest tracksuit, tried to get him to doze for a while longer. We would wait until the house was quite still again. And then we would go.
A Thing or Two
Her first kiss.
She had heard that kisses were sweet, but never thought they meant like that.
No. No thank you. She does not think she would like a kiss from a real man. (Kisses were from boys, if you liked one when you were really old, maybe twelve. Not a man who has too much forehead and is all grown-up.) But he is him. He takes another hard peach and a few brown cherries out of his pocket and puts them on the table and tells her that she would like a kiss, wouldn’t she, and she says: yes.
Now he is asking again. A second kiss.
She shakes her head.
‘Come on, I know you do, come here, quick …’
No.
No, thank you.
No.
No.
No.
Lola
DONE LIST 6
There has been trouble in the night. Fighting. Stevie pissed his pyjamas: I woke earlier and texted Dad and he was still up … I mean fuck, really? What are they trying to do to us, her and her pissing son. I love my dad.
I suspect it’s my fault though. Shame. I’ve been freaking her out a bit. People like Darling can’t stand being ignored. She won’t have bothered counting, but in the past 48 hours I’ve said no more than five words to her, including ‘yes’ and ‘no’ twice each. That’s all the vocabulary she deserves.
I’m Napoleoning Darling, too. (Jonesie taught me at least one thing worth remembering.) I cut her off from our conversations with wide eyes and a baby mouth. Ga ga goo. Dad smiles; he is my unknowing collaborator. I ask him things only he can answer, like things that happened before her time, when I was a baby.
‘Dad, did we live in Sanderson Road when I was two?’ (And Mum was here.) ‘Or three?’
‘Dad, when I was little,’ (and Mum was here) ‘what was that story you read me at bedtime?’
‘Dad, when I was a baby,’ (and Mum was here) ‘did I like, love, rusks? We tried some at Taz’s sleepover and they’re yum!’
Ga ga goo, fuck you.
She’s got to go.
I’ve been giving her a hard time over her rancid over-hot food too. Not saying anything exactly, just what you might call ‘making my feelings known’. I told Dad, straight out, that her crappy food was making me sick, that she had to be poisoning us all with her funky stews and junk soups.
Well, I had to say something! I know Dad hears me puking all the time. Got to give the poor guy some handle on my freakdom. And I might not have had actual food poisoning to date, but you can’t be too careful. (Unless, I suppose, you’re me, lol.)
She’s still here for the time being, unfortunately; I’ve clicked the app and I can see. Although I bet she’s not in the same room as Dad. Hold on, I just heard voices again. They can’t still be arguing. Going to find out what’s going on.
What the actual very fuck?
I mean, WHAT? The woman is crazy, seriously nutzoid. She really does need to sod right back off again to wherever the bloody hell she came from.
I can’t believe it. I went up my ‘secret stairs’ and along to the far end of the loft, then back down again to the other landing door with the gap so I could hear what they were saying. Totally wish I hadn’t. How can my dad have married someone who could think he was a paedo? She found some knickers and decided he wanted to screw his ow just gross. God almighty, what a freak (her not him).
Can you believe the cheek of that woman? Poor Dad sounded so upset; it was obvious even though his voice was all muffled. I actually want to kill her.
I’ll never get back to sleep now. Might as well write some shit and make AT’s day. Or maybe I should try to count lots of fit Wills jumping over a fence (he’s not Dovington athletics champion for nothing). Please tell me he’s not properly blanking me. Maybe he’s changed his mind about us …
Will told me Darling was not to be trusted and he was right! He is going to go nuts when I actually get hold of him to tell him all this. Or he might just piss himself more than Stevie did, the sicko. Yes, he will, knowing him, but he’ll also totally get why I hate Darling even more now (just when I thought I was about maxe
d out). He always says people exaggerate about all the ‘nasty racists’ and it’s simply the natural way the world has worked out. White people made everything worth having, made all the places worth living in, which is why everyone else is piling into leaking boats to get here now. It’s not racist, he says, people like him just don’t want their country ruined.
I know I should get angry when Will says all that stuff – Dad would go ape. But it’s hard, I am starting to think he does have some good points. It’s like when his Oxford application went wrong. His parents were so fucked off about it and they knew it was tied to all those reports in the papers about letting in more coloured people and Muslims and state school kids and the ‘one-legged-leftie-lesbians’ that his dad reckons are getting all the breaks these days.
Just heard a door. I wonder if they are going to go the hell to bed soon, or if she is planning to walk out. He should really kick her out but I know he won’t, he’s too nice. He would die if he knew I had heard them arguing about it, and it’s not like I know what to say to him about something so spectacularly fucked up. I’ll keep my mouth shut and let her do all the damage herself.
Quiet again now.
Anyway. Will was totally cheated over Oxford (he is so goddamn smart and he doesn’t even try). So I can kind of see where he’s coming from. It’s hard for boys like him – everyone thinks they’ve got it all and so they should share it with less impressive people, but why should he, really? The wars and corruption in black countries are hardly his fault, are they? But then again, I do realise that some little kids actually do die at sea or get abandoned in shitty camps … It’s pretty messed up. But none of it’s his fault. Darling goes on, she reckons things are changing for people like her in the UK, but then what would I know? I’ve only been around for sixteen crappy years. OK no, it’s not like I don’t care at all, but what the hell am I supposed to do about it?
Voices again. God, do they think I’m deaf or what? I can’t believe she is still here. What’s it going to take?
OK wait, I need to back Dad up, I thought I heard them say ‘police’. I’m just building up the nerve a sec. I’ll have to tell her. I’ll tell her that I should bloody know if my own Dad has been abusing me and that she has to listen to me when I say it isn’t true. And that if she had found a pair of knickers lying around … Well, I did do some naughty stuff, all over the place. Will liked me to go in all the different rooms, he used to say, ‘I’m going to have you all over your house.’ None of it was anything to do with my own bloody father, though, ffs! I was working my lacy backside off just to get Will to like me again. Stupid dumb mutual fun, a bit wild and crazy but not really bad. It was private.
Fuck her. Police, though? I need to tell her. Shit shit shit this will be properly cringe. But it’s got to be done. I will beg her to please, please not tell Dad about Will, but to please just believe me. Then we can both explain to Dad that she made a big mistake and that I left that underwear lying about because I am simply a lazy, messy teen. Normal. Unlike her.
After that I’m getting the hell out of here. I need to see Will – maybe we can go somewhere far away from parents? I can fill him in about this latest Darling nightmare and, as I’ll have taken one for the team, he can finally cough up whatever he knows about her. I’m sure he’ll be only too happy. He seems to find her almost entertaining: tracking her phone with me, generally taking the piss.
Must meet with him asap tonight. Now I’ve got a real reason, so it’s not like it would be asking for a date. I don’t think Will loves me properly yet, but give or take the Ben Wischer party thing, he does seem to like me. So that’s cool, isn’t it? And he did say he’d help me.
Dad and Darling in love? That really is fake news. Love is probably fake news.
Could have gone worse. I heard movement in the kitchen and went downstairs even though it was super-early and confessed it all to her, sang like the proverbial canary on speed. I apologised, rather beautifully. I think it’s done the trick. I can’t hear any more voices now – Dad might finally be getting some asleep.
I’m still in shock that it could all blow up like that. I just didn’t think. I certainly didn’t think that Darling would lose the plot about some stupid pants. And I still can’t quite believe I was silly enough to leave my knickers lying around! Although, to be honest, the first couple of times I did down a fair bit of their gin and stuff too – how else could I get the nerve to do those things for the camera? May have been a bit too drunk, got a bit sloppy … maybe I did just race back to my room before someone came home and caught me. She must be totally exaggerating about the amount of underwear though – I surely can’t have been so careless more than once. Or maybe twice, absolute max. To hear her shouting at Dad, you would think it had happened loads of times! Anyway, God, I can’t believe I nearly got Dad banged up, or got Will and me into trouble, for that matter. Also, not great that when I apologised just now, I screwed up by showing her Will’s photo – totally forgot she’d seen all his political stuff in my room! Still, what’s she going to do? Now I’ve confessed about the amateur porn-star antics she should be happy.
I don’t really care what she thinks of me but – how embarrassing. Still, bottom line is that she made this whole knicker thing into a problem, not me.
Anyway, she is sworn to secrecy now and has finally unpacked her suitcase. Which is a shame, of course – missed opportunity? – but at least Dad won’t be doing actual time for a) being a paedo or b) beating the crap out of Will for corrupting his daughter.
Still, I hope Will might corrupt me some more if we get to go out tonight.
Maybe AT nailed it in my very first session, maybe my issues do go back to my childhood. They must do, right? After all, childhood is the only thing that has ever happened to me. There is something that has stayed with me, this whole time. I remember in the weeks before Mum died, every time Dad went out, this man came around and I used to have to sit and watch some noisy kids’ show while they went upstairs to talk. It was so stupid, all that slapstick stuff I hated even then, and I never knew what it was called, which made it even more annoying – they always missed the opening credits. And Mum turned it up, really loud. I never knew the man’s name and I never saw even what colour his car was, or if he walked to our house, or when he left, and I’ve never told Dad because Mum had said not to and it sometimes keeps me half awake at night so that I wonder whether I am dreaming now, or whether I was dreaming it then. Except I know that in fact I was not dreaming then and it was always daytime. She was having an affair – I once got bored of the cartoons and saw their sex and kisses in the landing mirror – and I’ve never told him. I think that might keep me awake for the rest of my life.
One question I still can’t answer – why does Dad even want to be with her. Why?
I asked Will one time. He reckoned it was because ‘black women are easy and they’ve got big nipples’. I didn’t know what to say. He’s always really funny like that, but that time I couldn’t laugh, just felt sort of cold.
Could it be her nipples, though? I had a look online and Will’s not lying, but surely there must be more to it than that. Mind you, I can’t see what else is so loveable. It’s not just about her colour. With Darling and Stevie, we seem to be having some horrible sad kind of Bob-Marley-comes-to-town (with all his ganjaed-up mates) moment. Hey, some of Dad’s favourite singers and US presidents are suddenly black! He actually put on reggae the other day. Flipping reggae, WTF? Since when has he ever liked that? She’s changing him, but then isn’t that what they vowed to do when they said what’s yours is mine what’s mine is yours, etc? Thanks to her, we are now all mixed up, blended in every way. The United Waites.
Maybe it’s not her nipples. But I can’t think why the hell else he reckons he loves her so much. And more than ever I can’t stop wishing that she would do us all a favour and just drop dead.
Great, Will has said he’ll meet me at the Rose and Crown on the high street later. I’m worried there’s no way I�
�ll ever get in, even with my fake ID, but he has told me not to worry, he can get me in no problem.
Meanwhile I am staying in my room as much as possible. I don’t want to look at Darling unless I have to. Still so pissed off about her weird stupid accusations, I could actually hit her right now. Some of the girls at school always used to say I had ‘anger issues’. Of course I do, don’t need a fucking shrink to tell me that. I killed my own mother.
But I reckon I was angry way before that. I must have been born angry and I’ve no fucking idea why.
Darling controls everything … all the power, all the sex, theirs and mine, and no doubt soon all the money. Our whole family. That cannot be fair.
Also, forgot to mention: as if last night was not bad enough, I found out that she told him to fake my sixteenth birthday cake. We were talking about cake the other day and he told me about that, feeling bad, while she was sitting right there. Just came out with it, like it was some cute little anecdote the two of them had shared. He’s not a liar, like her. She’s ruined my life. I loved his disgusting cake and it turns out it was all a lie and next thing she’s lying about him too and what in the name of bastard am I supposed to do now?
He’ll need cheering up later. I often try to, without him noticing. I’ve been asking him lots of good questions lately:
‘Dad, what’s a liquid asset?’
‘Dad, when should you start learning to drive?’
‘Dad, what is a silly mid off?
‘Dad, how do you get a mortgage?’
I sometimes ask a load of questions in a row, just to ultra-annoy Darling. Dad loves explaining stuff – practical matters and issues of great, big-deal life importance. He seriously should have been a teacher. Sometimes it’s like he’s waited his whole life to explain stuff to me.
Goes both ways.
God, what a night.
Will was right, there was no problem getting into the Rose and Crown. I was sure they wouldn’t let me in – for a start I can’t find my best eyeliner and I look about twelve without it – but it was easy. Will put his arm around me and went up to this big scary-looking guy on the door. I wanted to turn around and go, this bloke looked like we shouldn’t mess him about at all, but Will just said ‘All right mate?’ and the guy said, ‘All right, Will, in you come.’ And that was it. He didn’t even ask for the fake ID, thank Christ!
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