Lily Poole

by Jack O'Donnell

  ‘So whit.’ He tried to snatch the blankets, but she was alert, keeping them tight to the bed as a tympani.

  ‘It means that you attacking him has all blown over.’ She tickled his bum. He wriggled away and gave her more room in the bed.

  ‘Whit are you witterin’ on about?’ He struggled to wipe sleep from his face. There had been something in his dream about falling. Falling and Lily shouting from far away, but the memory was swamped by thoughts of Janine. He took a deep breath, lifted his head and slowly turned to look at her smiling, cocksure face. He breathed her in and reached across to pull her closer. His pecker was one jump ahead, more forgiving of her chafing presence, and already hard.

  Janine giggled and batted his thrusting forays away, she mumbled about needing some downtime and shrieked about her insides being as watery as a First World War trench. But he was so insistent. So masterful, and when he got on top of her, in such rollicking rude health. She really couldn’t hold back his advances.

  ‘That was nice.’ She smacked her lips together after sex, and slipped out of his bed as easily as he had slipped inside her. She knew he was ogling her arse as she padded towards the door. Her hand was on the aluminium handle before she turned to check – he was. ‘You’ll get some good news today about going home.’

  ‘How’d you know?’

  Her head dotted forward and she playfully tapped the side of her nose. ‘Cause I’m a witch.’ Then she was gone, flinging the door open and disappearing through it with a cartoon laugh.

  A headache hovered above his temple but Janine had left him with a big daft grin on his face. He swung his legs out of bed, needing to pee. Shuffling feet and the faraway clinking of the drug trolley, combined with the sound of running water and the clanking of pipes vibrating through the walls, reminded him how late it was getting. He dashed into the hall hoping the lavvy pans would not yet be stinking, full of unflushed shite, and the gents full of mad people who, first thing in the morning, looked worse than he felt.

  After a breakfast of cornflakes and milky tea, he ­swallowed his meds with a sip of water and, like the other patients, did not ask awkward questions about how many tablets he was asked to take, or what those extra two pinkish ones were for. He left fussing to people whose bodies did not ache and took his frustrations out in the pool room next door.

  He cued the white ball up and down the green baize, popping red balls off at different angles into the pockets. Periodically, he lifted his head and glanced through the window and along the corridor, waiting for Janine to come out of her room. But she failed to appear. Jackie came instead. She knocked lightly on the window. He watched her shy smile, as if about to share a secret, as she jounced towards the door and pushed it open. She stood on the threshold, bent forward, as if undecided whether to come inside.

  ‘Mr Williams wants to see you.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘I’d guess.’ She nodded, turning sideways, unsure if she should say more.

  John lined up a red and smashed it into the bottom bag near the door. The recoil of the balls striking made Jackie jump back a little. He left the cue on the table and the game unfinished. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’ He watched a shy smile warm her face and flashed a wolfish grin at her. Everybody liked Jackie, even Janine, it was one of the rules in the ward, like the telly always being on. He tagged on behind her sashaying, blue-Wranglered bum and discovered she had nice chunky legs and a clean, girly smell. She lightly rapped her knuckles on the door.

  ‘Whit’s he want to see me for?’ he asked.

  She shrugged her shoulders and gave him a prim smile, leaving him to find out for himself.

  ‘Come in,’ grunted Williams.

  He watched her walk away and when he stepped inside, he found he too was infected with her smiling malady.

  Mr Williams reached across and picked up a steaming mug. He swilled the contents around, warming his hands, before supping a mouthful and clunking it back down again. Nodding and sighing through his nose as if he had come to a decision, he sat up straighter, before speaking. ‘I’ve decided to let you go home on compassionate grounds.’ He watched the smile on John’s face catch fire, and he put his hand up to dampen the flame. ‘But there are some things you need to know before you can go.’ He paused before continuing. ‘The police are investigating the disappearance of your sister Alison.’

  ‘Whit do you mean? What about her?’ John’s eyes were suddenly hooded and a tug of war played on his lips. ‘I don’t understand.’ Near to tears, his head rattled from side to side.

  ‘Your sister didn’t come home from school yesterday. They’ve reason to believe there’s been foul play.’

  John waited for the laugh, the joke, ‘foul play’ was something out of Dixon of Dock Green, not something that happened in real life. Mr Williams’s fingers intertwined, hiding his mouth. His grim look and the briefest of nods confirmed that what he had said was true.

  He stumbled out of Williams’s office as if he wore horse-blinkers and failed to acknowledge anybody in the corridors. Pushing open his room door, he staggered inside and stood at the window, looking out onto the mismatched bricks of other buildings, and allowed the tears to come, streaking his face. A sucking, groaning noise filled the room. He remembered Ally as a little-bitty thing he could fling over his shoulder to burp and carry like a shawl. He remembered tickling her plump little body on the moth-eaten rug in front of the fireplace.

  The realisation came slowly that he had already consigned her to the past and he did not want to think of her in the present, in the hands of some pervert and wondering what he might be doing to her. He unclenched his fists. Da’ll kill him. The thought came unbidden, a jagged thing. He was the man of the family now.

  Part of the dream he experienced the night before, Lily’s voice, and a sense of falling, had been a warning, a jigsaw piece that did not fit, but now slotted into place. To find Ally, he would have to try and find Lily, but he did not know how to do that. He had already tried and failed. The room was claustrophobic. An old pair of faded Levis, threadbare at the knees, lay on the floor, and an Adidas top was scrunched up on the chair near the window. A black bin liner for his dirty washing lay unused under his bed. He dragged it out and tipped whatever was nearest into the bag – washed or dirty, jumbling clothes together inside its plastic membrane. The round toes of his Adidas Samba sannies poked into the plastic bag at his feet. He gazed round the room wondering what else he would need. He needed nothing that locks, medication and a routine that dulled mind and body could provide.

  John charged towards the door and flung it open. Then he shrank back into the room, knelt and opened the bag to haul out his Wrangler jacket, pulling dirty socks out of its pockets like squiggling worm bait. With his arms through the sleeves and the familiar denim uniform on his back he felt halfway home.

  He dropped into Janine’s room, hoping to tap the train fare off her. Her make-up was piled to overflowing on the bedside cabinet and the room smelled like a burnt-out boudoir but, as usual, she was not in the place he expected her to be. A quick circuit of the ward offered no clues. She came and went as she pleased. He pushed his hands deeper into his jacket pocket. The smell of food wafting from the kitchen made his mouth water, and he felt suddenly ravenous, but food could wait.

  Rapping on the window of the office, the features of a waxen face peered through at him, then another puppet face and another behind that. Nurse McMurty edged the door open, her hip jutting one way, shoulder bulging another and head jabbing out like a chicken. She waited for him to speak.

  ‘I’m gettin’ out today,’ he said.

  Her head turned and he heard a woman’s voice from behind her saying, ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘Give me a minute,’ Nurse McMurty said, the door clicking shut in his face, but he could follow her ­movements clearly through the glass panels. Sitting in front of her was one of the white-coated doctors that came in periodically for psychy training. He picked up the rece
iver, dialled and spoke to someone on the phone. Nurse McMurty opened the door wider, but stood square, attempting to block his view of the office. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘You’ve got home leave.’ She would not meet his eyes.

  ‘Can you tell me where Janine is, please?’ he asked.

  ‘Is she no’ on the ward?’

  ‘Nah.’

  She turned her shoulders and head, looking behind her for help. Nobody said anything. She faced him, sniffed and licked at the fuzz on her top lip. ‘That’s confidential,’ she nodded. ‘You’ll need to sign a few things before you leave,’ she added.

  He leaned forward. ‘No, I don’t. You’ve been told. Just let me out. And hurry up about it.’

  The ward keys jangled on the chain she carried as she shuffled towards the door. She seemed to take the whole of creation to find the right key. He had one last look along the corridor for Janine. Nothing. The SEN’s parting words were a whispered warning. ‘I’ll see you when you get back.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ John said.

  John bounced down the front steps of the ward. Purple and buttercup-yellow crocuses sprung out of the soil and grass. Soggy bushes and the burning sunshine colour of witch bane bent against a faraway wall. He pulled his collar up like Elvis and began walking, the rain sweeping in and a squall of hailstones soaking through denim before he had even reached Crow Road. But he kept plodding on, kicking through litter, passing walls and the sides of shops styled with Fuck this and Fuck you red-lettered graffiti. Thoughts of his da and thoughts of Ally kept him trooping, mile after mile of roads in Scotstoun and pavements in Yoker.

  Out of practice walking any distance, his denims chafed his legs and his sannies made sucking sounds. He traipsed up the hill at Dickens Avenue, past the phone box, almost home. That was sunshine enough. He gawked in the living-room window, looking for signs of life, like a day tripper passing through Calderpark Zoo. There was nothing to see, only the dimmed-down venetian blinds. He trekked around the familiar path and wondered if anybody would be in. He was lucky. The door was unlocked, and he squelched up the hall and into the living room. Auntie Caroline was yakking to her friend Gloria. Their conversation abruptly stopped. He felt counterfeit, the wrong person in the wrong house.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re soaking,’ said Auntie Caroline. ‘You better get yourself changed.’ He nodded. ‘Your mum’s having a wee rest. With the police coming and going at all hours, she’s been up most of the night.’

  But before she had finished speaking Mary’s bedroom door squeaked open and she stumbled down the hall. She was wearing a newish and heavy dun-coloured nightgown. Her hair was unrecognisable, frizzed up in the shape of a flying-saucer, but she was thin as a whip of celery and her eyes sunk like bilge into the hollow caves of her face. Her complexion, once a ruddy pink, looked transparent and contrasted with the veins in her neck, which bulged out like pale-blue pipes. Mary hurried the last few steps between them and wrapped her arms around him. She plumped her head on his shoulder, taking no notice of his sodden state. He breathed in the familiar smell of fags and roll-on deodorant as he hugged her back, lifting her off her feet.

  ‘My big boy is home.’ She sniffled and cried, asking no questions.

  He cried too. They locked against each other until she pulled away and apologised. ‘Sorry for being so daft.’ She looked up at him. ‘You’ll be wanting a cup of tea.’

  ‘I’ll get that.’ Auntie Caroline, a reassuring presence, lurched away to the kitchen.

  Mary pulled at the sleeve of his jacket. ‘You’re wringing wet. You’ll get your death of cold. You better get changed.’

  ‘Aye,’ he whispered. ‘Any word about little Ally?’

  Her head dropped like a raggedy doll and her hands searched the side pockets for her fags, which was answer enough.

  ‘Where’s our Jo?’ he asked.

  The feel and rattle of a box of matches calmed Mary. She had a fag in her mouth and lit it before she replied. ‘I sent her down to Linnvale to stay with your Auntie Teresa. It’s safer down there – away from me.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, not quite knowing what to say. ‘I’ll go and get changed.’

  The familiar cut-out pictures of Celtic players, arms folded, not a care in the world, stared down at him from the walls in his room. His breath fogged in front of his nose and he shivered; his feet were sore and the coldest part of him. He ransacked the top shelf of the cupboard near his bed for a change of clothes and left a sodden mass of dirty washing piled higgledy-piggledy on top of the bed. Searching through the bottom drawer of the dresser for clean white pants and thick football socks, his thoughts skated over having a bath. The boiler would take hours to heat. Besides, they had guests and that added to the hassle. He pulled his Y-fronts over the slap of his penis. Lopsided, he stumped backwards and slumped onto his bed. The white socks he picked out matched the shrivelled, waterlogged skin of his feet. Flinging on the clean clothes he felt warmer, a new man. He hurried to the living room and the balmy heat of the two-bar electric fire.

  Gloria drew her feet in close to give him space to warm his hands. In the kitchen he could hear the low murmur of his mum and Auntie Caroline talking. The smell of fag smoke drifted into the room. Gloria filled the awkward silence. ‘You’ve had quite a time of it, eh?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You been in to see your da yet?’ She paused, her eyes twinkling with a kind of knowing. ‘He’s awful good,’ she added, her head bobbing, pink earlobes wagging underneath her short hair in agreement. She took a deep breath. ‘He’s at rest.’

  Auntie Caroline came through from the kitchen, which saved him from telling Gloria what he really thought. She carried a glazed mug of tea in her hand, careful to keep it from slopping. John retreated from the fireplace to the couch and the mug was pushed into his waiting hands.

  ‘I’m glad to see yous two gettin’ on so well.’ Auntie Caroline looked from one to the other.

  ‘You want more tea?’ she asked Gloria.

  Gloria shook her head, blew out her cheeks and made a puffing noise. ‘If I drink any more tea I’ll burst.’

  John supped at his tea, his lips making smacking noises. His head felt fuzzy and the light needled his eyes. The mug he gripped shook and tilted. Auntie Caroline made a grab for it, taking it from him.

  ‘Easy, easy,’ Auntie Caroline talked him down as if he was a bucking horse.

  ‘He’s having an episode.’ Childish glee stretched Gloria’s mouth, animating her face, and she shuffled her bum forward to the edge of her chair. ‘Is there something we need to know?’ she enunciated in the elocutionary voice of a stage-performer, leaning on the armrest for support. Her mouth hung open as she waited on a reply.

  John heard faraway voices whispering, like wind blowing through the leaves of the trees in Rouken Glen Park. He was aware of the stomp of feet and his mum charging through from the kitchen. She flung herself at him, knocking his shoulder against the wall, clinging onto him, wailing, ‘Don’t die, son. For God’s sake, don’t die on me!’

  The disconnected feeling passed as quickly as it came. He straightened up and gently disentangled himself from his mum’s clutching fingers. With the show over, Gloria looked at the clock on the mantelpiece, and remarked, ‘Is it thon time already?’

  Auntie Caroline took Mary by the elbow and helped her to stand. ‘Maybe it would be a good idea if you had another wee lie down?’ she suggested, escorting her towards the living room door. ‘You’re awful tired looking.’

  Mary let herself be guided. She looked over at John. ‘You be OK, son?’

  John’s face flushed, embarrassed, he tried to make a joke out of what had happened to him. ‘Aye, Mum. Don’t worry about me. Rest up, since you’re pregnant.’

  The slow shuffle of feet stopped. His mum turned towards him, her voice like a damp facecloth. ‘Aye, son. How’d you know?’ She held her two hands flat against her stomach. ‘Wee Joey’s in there, waiting to be reborn and c
ome oot. C’mon, son. It’s time.’ Mary nipped forward, taking advantage of the stunned silence, and found her fingers weaving into John’s hand, pulling him up and out of the chair he was sitting in. Her hand paddled flat against his back. She guided him through the hall, took him through to the back bedroom and gave him a minute alone with his dad.

  He stood at the foot of the coffin with his head bowed and fingers shaped in prayer. He peered in and bit down on his lips to cover the sense of disappointment and the unsettling urge to laugh. His da looked like Captain Scarlet from Thunderbirds. His gaze drifted up to the ceiling and his stomach and shoulders began heaving; he tucked his chin into his arm to try and prevent his mum from seeing him gurgling with laughter. But he kept expecting to see strings lift Da up in the coffin, and him hanging there flubby-dubbying and saying: ‘Thunderbirds are Go!’ He lost it, laughing until he had to hold onto the trestle of the coffin.

  Mary stood in the door with Auntie Caroline behind her. They had come to see what all the fuss was about. ‘It’s not funny,’ Auntie Caroline said, when she finally caught his eye.

  ‘Aye, I know.’ He straightened up and then bent over sniggering again. ‘I’m just so upset.’ He took a deep breath and practised holding his face straight. ‘I need to go to the toilet.’ He brushed past them with his hand gagging his mouth.

  ‘That takes the biscuit.’ Auntie Caroline guided Mary into the room, but for all her bluster, she smiled at John’s antics. ‘You go in and have a wee lie down. You’ll feel better for it.’

  Mary sat obediently on the edge of the bed. Auntie Caroline stretched down and coaxed the slippers from her feet.

  ‘That little spell in hospital will have done him the world of good,’ Auntie Caroline said. ‘Helped sort him out. Them doctors know what they’re doin’. And the girls were certainly sleeping better and not up and down like yo-yos at all hours.’

  ‘You think so?’ Mary lay down on the bed and shut her eyes, too tired to argue.