‘Oh.’
The knot Geldof had been trying to cough up dissolved. He stopped punching the wardrobe and his eyes filled with tears again. Before he could wildly seesaw into a blubbering wreck, his father came to the rescue. ‘She could barely tear herself away from staring at you to eat the placenta. Fried it myself with some garlic.’
Geldof got up, rubbing blood from his skinned knuckles on his trousers, and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Didn’t that go against your vegan principles?’
James shrugged. ‘Nah, nothing died.’ He struggled to a seated position. ‘She was rough on you, I know, but she just wanted you to live right. That’s why she protected you from your granddad.’
‘What, Granddad Peters? Why did I need protecting from him?’
‘No. Granddad Carstairs.’
‘Eh? I thought he died before I was born.’
A light briefly came on in the depths of James’s bloodshot eyes. ‘Ah. I forgot. Sorry, Fanny.’
‘Forgot what?’
‘Don’t suppose it matters now.’
‘What doesn’t matter?’
‘He’s not dead. He still lives in London. We moved to Scotland to get away from him. Fanny used her trust fund to buy this house and the shop. He doesn’t know where we are.’
‘He’s not dead? Why did you lie, then? Was he a paedophile?’
James shook his head. ‘Worse. You know Carstairs Coffee?’
‘Of course. They sell it everywhere. What, he owns the company?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hell’s teeth!’ Geldof exclaimed, giving up on his experiment with real swear words. ‘He must be loaded.’
‘Filthy rich. And he wanted to leave it to you, his only male heir.’
‘Hold on. He wanted to give me his massive coffee empire?’
James nodded.
‘I’m struggling to see the problem here.’
‘His coffee wasn’t Fairtrade. We visited one of the plantations in Cameroon. They treated those workers like slaves.’
James sighed and flumped back down onto the bed, seemingly exhausted by what might well have been the longest conversation Geldof had ever had with him.
Geldof sat on the edge of the bed, stunned.
I should be angry again, he thought. She’s cheated me out of millions.
But the whole situation was so ludicrous, and so typical of Fanny, that he had to suppress the urge to laugh. It struck him that, now she was gone, maybe he didn’t have to hate her. So often he had longed for his mother to disappear. He had never explicitly wished her dead: sure, he had occasionally imagined her developing a catastrophic nut allergy that ended with a fountain of Brazil nuts exploding out of her abdomen, or having her head kicked in by a police horse at a demo against the Iraq war, but those were just boyish fantasies.
Suddenly, fond memories flooded in. There was the trip to Glasgow Zoo when he was five, when she chained them both to the lion enclosure and demanded the beast be set free. Geldof had treated it as a fun game, even when the lion sauntered over to investigate the fresh meal someone had chained up for him. One zookeeper had had to keep it at bay with a pole so his colleague could put a tranquillizer dart in it as they waited for the fire brigade to arrive with cutting equipment.
Then there was the Arbroath Weekend Naturist Retreat, which she took Geldof to when he was seven. He was allowed to remain clothed since it was late autumn and he had the flu, and he passed a happy three days peering at jiggling breasts (his curious gaze allowed to roam freely by the shielding depths of his parka) with a fascination he didn’t quite fully understand.
And living in a tree-house in Pollok Park for three months as Fanny and her friends tried to stop a new motorway being built was a two-year-old boy’s dream. He still remembered raining conkers down on the hats of the police officers who were forced to keep a 24-hour watch on the protesters, egged on by his delighted mother.
Now he thought about it, their relationship only deteriorated when he hit puberty and developed, along with a raging brew of hormones, a finely honed sense of embarrassment. Now he was motherless. Effectively an orphan, since his father rarely put in an appearance on planet Earth other than to ask where the skins were. Geldof got up, crossed to his mother’s wardrobe and climbed inside. Her smell – earthy, sweaty and comforting – enveloped him. He pulled a dress off a hook and curled up around it. His eyelids started to droop and soon he nodded off.
When he awoke, his cheek was on fire. He burst from the wardrobe, rolled over and came to his feet like a marine. He fought the urge to claw at his face where the hemp dress had brought his skin up in massive hives.
Accursed hemp! he thought.
That was when it hit him. He no longer needed to wear hemp. His father had never been bothered about that particular rule, or any rule for that matter, and Fanny was no longer around to enforce it. Thirty seconds later, Geldof was bollock naked. Aside from the normal relief of having the chafing items off his skin, his body tingled with the prospect of never having to don hemp again. In his elation, he forgot the house was full of guests and high-stepped into the hallway for a victory lap. Mary was before him, heading for the toilet. She shrieked, while Geldof cupped his balls and hopped sideways back into the room. He slammed the door shut and leaned against it, his heart thumping. Then he began to laugh. Finally, Fanny’d had her way. He had become a nudist.
That evening they gathered for what James said was a Buddhist ceremony to help Fanny’s spirit journey to its next receptacle. They gathered in a semicircle around the statue which was to represent her physical form: a two-foot-high, bright-red carving of a grumpy-looking god with droopy moobs and startlingly large male genitalia. It seemed particularly pertinent to Lesley that James had chosen an icon with huge balls to stand in for his wife, which was a comment on the nature of their relationship if ever there was one. Blue streams of smoke curled from incense sticks placed either side of the statue and circled James like the vapour trails of miniature fighter planes. The sandalwood scent was cloying, yet it still failed to quell the stale reek of nine humans who had run out of soap and toilet paper.
Only Constance was exempt from participating, which was fair enough considering she was still on the sofa looking like she was not only at death’s door, but had rung the bell and was listening for footsteps on the other side. James stood in the middle of the semicircle, swaying back and forth. Everybody else was in their own private little world. Mary was busy oozing motherly compassion towards Geldof, who still looked dazed; the twins were kicking each other’s shins; and David seemed to be licking his lips and gazing at the professor.
James stopped swaying and said, ‘Fanny is dead, but her spirit does not yet realize it. We must help her understand she has left this world and help her find her way to her next life.’ He bowed his head. ‘Please, hold hands.’
Terry’s warm palm enfolded Lesley’s instantly. Her hand tingled and she had to resist the impulse to squeeze. David grabbed her other hand roughly a few seconds later, smearing her palm with a slick of sweat. She grimaced.
‘Now, repeat after me,’ James intoned. ‘Anicca vata sankhara, uppadavayadhammino. Uppajjitva nirujjhanti tesam vupasamo sukho.’
Silence followed.
‘Could you say that again please?’ Lesley asked.
‘Anicca vata sankhara, uppadavayadhammino. Uppajjitva nirujjhanti tesam vupasamo sukho,’ James repeated, this time with a bit more emphasis.
‘I’m not sure I can pronounce that,’ Terry said. ‘Can we do it in English? I think Fanny would understand.’
‘That might be a problem,’ James replied, his voice losing its significant tone.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know what it means. I got it out of one of Fanny’s books. I think it helps.’ His shoulders slumped. ‘This was more her thing.’
‘So you have no clue what you’re doing,’ David stated.
James looked at each one of them in turn, his eyes full of sorrow. ‘No.’
<
br /> ‘I don’t know how much more of this I can take,’ David said.
‘You’ll take as much as you have to,’ Terry snapped at him.
Lesley pinched David’s palm hard – Terry had told her what had really happened in the store – and was gratified to hear him let out a girlish yelp.
‘Don’t worry, James,’ she said. ‘Just say whatever you think will help and we’ll all try and will her soul onward.’
The gratitude that flooded James’s face was so pathetic Lesley could not look at him. He cleared his throat and addressed the statue. ‘Fanny. I hope you can hear me. Er, you’re dead. Sorry. It’s a total bummer. Geldof and me, we’re completely freaked out. And sad, too.’
Geldof nodded in agreement.
‘But dead’s dead, you know? You need to face it and move on.’
He fell silent. Lesley tried her hardest to will Fanny on to her next life. All she could conjure up was an image of body parts being slowly digested and compressed into pig pellets.
‘Is that it?’ David asked.
‘Yes,’ James responded. ‘Now we need to burn the statue.’
He pulled out a lighter.
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ Lesley said, seized with images of fleeing a burning house only to be confronted by an array of zombie wildlife rushing to pig out on the human barbecue.
‘It’s part of the ritual.’
Lesley moved to stop him, but Terry tightened his grip on her hand.
‘Leave him be,’ he whispered. ‘He’ll never get it on fire with that.’
The words had barely died on Terry’s lips when James whipped out a can of lighter fluid, sprayed the statue and lit up his Zippo in one fluid motion. Flames spewed up from the god, lapping eagerly at the ceiling and wall. Burning lighter fluid dripped from the end of the god’s penis. The carpet promptly ignited.
‘Fucking hell!’ Terry shouted and leapt forward. He stamped on the flames, succeeding only in setting fire to his sock. ‘Somebody get some water!’
Lesley dashed for the kitchen, knocking aside David, who landed heavily on the professor. She grabbed the first pot she could get her hands on and chucked it under the tap. When she dashed back out, Terry was hopping around, beating at his foot with a cushion. The twins were staring at the spectacle with obvious glee. James was curled up in a ball in the corner, while David was still sprawled across the professor, his chest pressed hard across her mouth and nose, preventing her from breathing. Lesley slapped him on the top of the head as she ran past. Constance took a shuddering breath as he shifted.
‘Get some water,’ Lesley told him.
Three minutes and ten pots of water later, the fire was out. The only physical damage was a black hole in the carpet, soot marks up the wall and a charred statue. James, however, was a mess.
‘There must be some in the shed,’ he was repeating as he rocked back and forth in the corner.
Geldof stood over him, tentatively trying to console him. James sprang to his feet and pushed past his son.
‘There is,’ James said. ‘I left it under a plant pot!’
He threw back the curtains and disappeared out through the patio door, letting in a light breeze that set the smoke swirling around the room.
‘Should we go after him?’ Lesley asked the room.
Geldof answered by pointing to the fence. A grey squirrel had appeared. As they watched, another one popped up, then another, then another, until there were at least a dozen lined up.
‘They’re back,’ he said.
‘So?’ Lesley said. ‘They’re only squirrels.’
The largest squirrel scrabbled down the fence and charged at the patio door. Terry hauled the door shut just as it leapt. It thumped off the glass and rebounded at least two feet, leaving behind a little red smear. It got up immediately and came charging back, this time followed by its pals. They thudded off the patio door like large furry raindrops. Terry pulled the curtain closed. The thuds carried on.
‘Do you think Dad will be OK out there?’ Geldof asked.
‘As long as he stays in the shed and keeps quiet, he’ll be fine,’ Lesley replied.
A flurry of crashes and bangs emanated from the shed as James’s search for his stash became more frantic. There was a brief pause, followed by a loud wail. The thudding against the glass stopped.
Lesley and Terry looked at each other.
‘We should go get him,’ Terry said.
‘We need some weapons,’ Lesley responded.
Geldof sprinted to the cupboard under the stairs. His head disappeared inside for a few seconds, before he emerged with two wooden tennis racquets, both of them missing strings. Another wail sounded from outside, this time one of pain.
‘Oh, fuck it,’ Terry said. ‘Good enough.’
He grabbed the racquets and handed one to Lesley.
Terry slid open the door and they stepped outside. James had emerged from the shed and was staggering around the garden, knocking over the approach ramp of his assault course. A squirrel hung from each earlobe as others spiralled around his body. One of the squirrels that had yet to mount James saw the two of them and scampered over. Three feet away it flung itself into the air. Lesley didn’t think, just swung her arm up in a powerful arc Serena Williams would have been proud of and caught the squirrel flush with the centre of the racquet. The squirrel sailed over the fence, performing cartwheels as it went.
Lesley laughed out loud, emboldened by the savage thrill thrumming up her arm. They advanced on James and his mono-coloured squirrel nightmare coat. It took three sturdy thwacks – the blows accompanied by enraged squeaks and grunts of pain from both James and the rodents – to knock each squirrel off. The one attached to James’s left ear came away with a piece of lobe still held between its teeth. When James was desquirrelled, Terry gave the wounded animals writhing on the ground the tennis-racquet equivalent of a single bullet to the head. When he was done, the strings were spattered with gore.
They helped James indoors, locking the patio door behind them, and sat him at the bottom of the stairs. While his face was smeared with blood, the wounds were superficial. The worst injury was to his ear, but even that was only oozing. He allowed Mary to tend to his wounds and then let Terry lead him up to his room, with Geldof in close attendance.
‘That was truly weird,’ Lesley said.
‘So what do we do now?’ David asked.
‘We go to bed. I don’t think I could take any more insanity today.’
‘I mean what do we do about Squirrel-boy?’
‘I don’t get you.’
‘What if he gets what they have?’
Lesley thought for a minute. ‘I haven’t seen any humans behaving like that. Have you?’
‘No. But can you be sure?’
‘No,’ she said grudgingly.
‘I think we should tie him to the bed.’
‘Don’t you think the poor man has been through enough?’ Mary asked.
‘Do you want him to tear you to pieces in the middle of the night? Or rip out the twins’ throats?’
Mary harrumphed, but did not respond.
‘I’ll talk to Terry,’ Lesley said, and hauled herself to her feet.
As she climbed the stairs, she wondered how she was going to persuade Geldof to allow his father, who in one day had lost his wife, almost set fire to the house and then been mauled by squirrels, to be tied to the bed in case he turned into a slavering, homicidal zombie.
I’ll never, ever complain about having a bad day again, she thought.
13
Letting the cat out of the bag
James presented no objection to being lashed to the bed, having lapsed into a coma-like state. Geldof was also amenable to the idea of tying up a potential zombie, father or not, since he was sleeping in the same room. To make matters even easier, Lesley found four short lengths of rope stashed beneath the marital bed, each with an easy-tighten noose. She passed the tying-up duty to Terry. An ex-boyfriend had persuade
d her to try bondage a few times, and while she had no strong feelings for or against, she knew how easy it was for bodily fluids to contaminate the equipment.
As Terry tightly lashed a compliant James to the bedposts, Lesley watched Geldof, who was sitting in the corner hugging his knees.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked.
‘I’m fine,’ he replied, although he didn’t really look it.
Lesley felt a flush of sympathy for the boy, and found herself volunteering to sleep in the room as well. Terry looked as though he was going to object at first, then just nodded. Geldof seemed indifferent.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Geldof crawled into his makeshift bed. Before too long he was breathing deeply. Lesley lay awake, staring at the crack in the curtains and longing for a cigarette. She imagined Brown, glasses glinting in the moonlight, heels click-clacking on the pavement as he stalked the streets with a gun dangling from his hand. Sometimes he slipped unseen through a herd of infected cows, other times he blasted his way through just for the sheer sport of it. He peered through keyholes and listened at windows; he clambered onto rooftops to survey the horizon; he crawled through sewers and up narrow pipes to emerge from toilet bowls, his head swivelling like a periscope before slowly descending again. Through it all, his suit stayed immaculately pressed, his handkerchief pert and pristine, his eyes dead. On he came, relentless, unforgiving, invulnerable, until he stood beneath the window and softly called out Lesley’s name.
She woke with a start. The only illumination came from a shaft of moonlight that fell onto the bottom of the bed. Even though she knew she had been dreaming, she was too scared to crawl to the window and look out. She instantly forgot the dream, however, when a throaty moan emanated from somewhere in the gloom.
Lesley sat bolt upright. The moan came again, this time longer and higher in pitch. She had seen enough zombie films to know what that moan meant and patted the floor frantically until she remembered she had left the tennis racquet downstairs. Not that it would have made much difference: it would need more than an amateur forehand to kill an adult human zombie. She was about to break into a fast crawl for the door when the moan came again. It was between her and the exit. James had freed himself and was feasting on his son’s flesh. Lesley panted like a forty-a-day man on a treadmill and pressed her back against the wall, waiting for a shambling figure to materialize and rip her throat out.
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