Scary time

My head's twisted sideways, thumb in my mouth. The moon-shaped cuticle has taken a few hits. Molars click like needles gnawing a thinking man's map on the red penumbra of surrounding skin, spitting asteroids out of the side of my mouth and onto the carpet to be hoovered up later. Eyes slide off the telly for a second. Tinny laugher at Fleegle being Fleegle makes me frown. I lean into the seat like Evel Knieval hitting the accelerator, raising my bum cheek so I can fart without anybody noticing. My head swivels to check she's not about. Nobody can track fart smells like Our Jo. She's a Barbara Streisand nose with a bloodhound body attached. She tracks you down anywhere in the world and whacks you hard on the back of the head. The gold laminate hands of Big Ben on the mantelpiece ticks out time and tells me she'll not be in for about another hour. But I wave the fart smell away, just in case. The living room is my castle. Feet are curled, tucked in cozy under my bum, but I start picking between my toes and smelling my fingers. It doesn't taste too bad. I decide on maturity. I decide I'm to old for all that crappy cartoon stuff, too old for that Halloween stuff too. Too old to want sweets and money and crisps and even at a push those daft apples, oranges and monkey nuts that were shoved in your bag. I catch sight of a glimmer of ragged nail on my index finger and it's like chewing on a challenge. I slaughter it, ripping skin, tasting blood. Roadrunners on the telly. I don't like Roadrunner. It's just plain dumb. Beep. Beep. I lean forward and let another one go, flicking at the horizontals of the Venetian blinds to see if anybody else was about.

Outside Mr Chalmers's head is down, checked coat flapping against his legs, butting against the wind, the sky's an ink-pot threatening to fall on him, as his long body lurches from the pavement and cuts across the grass at the triangle. Nobody's about, which is just as well.

'That's you. It's your favourite.' Mum shouts from the kitchen. 'Hurry up, because we'll have people coming to the door and I want dinner out of the road.'

Stretching and yawning I flick one of the metal bars of the blinds up, my eyes sweeping up and down the street. Nobody about.

'What you gettin' dressed up as for Halloween?' Mum's standing smoking a fag at the unit, her back to me, chopping up the slick potatoes she's peeled.

A noise escapes from the back of my throat, a laugh that has been strangled with contempt. 'Nothin'.'

My wee brother, Bod, is sitting in at the corner, legs swinging, picking at his chips. I steal one and gobble it down. I laugh out loud at his furious face and giggle when he takes a swing and tries to kick me. I hold his wrists until he calms. Fag smoke and boiling and boiling lard make the air in the kitchen heavy. I watch Bod going through to the living room and claiming my seat to watch the telly.

Mum sticks sausage and chips down on the fold-out table in front of me and grins at me. My cheeks dimple. After a few minutes I'm sitting with my feet splayed out, belly full, forking my chips and dragging them through the last sludge of tomato sauce. The front door bangs once, then three more times.

'You better get it.' Mum takes a deep drag of her fag and bats her chest into submission as she coughs.

'Och Mum! Why's it always me?' I squeeze a lazy look up at her and know she's not kidding.

Shaking my head, huffing and puffing I get slowly to my feet. The door gets battered again.

'Hold your horses,' shouts Mum. She shakes the chips in the chip pan like she's wrestling a bear, but she looks over at me and I make a dash for the front door.

I know because it's early and the way the door is chapped that youngsters will be standing with painted bud-like faces, 'knock, knock jokes' and dancing feet that twist and turn like an elastic band when they get to the end of their performance. Answering the door is a bit of a reddy. The door chaps again, more urgently. Suddenly, I hate them, with their evil little grins, their look at me, me, me, and their greediness and surly faces. I lengthen my stride and pull down the Yale and fling the door open.

'What time you goin' out for Halloween tonight?' Jim stands with his hand deep in his Levi jacket.

'Never.' My lips press tightly and I shake my head at him as if he's daft.

'How no?'

'Cause I don't want to.'

'Suit yourself.' He shrugs and turns to go, still with his hands in his pockets.

'Whit you gettin' dressed up as?'

He stands on the top step, my question unbalancing him, mouth puckering and sharp nose scrunching his cheeks. 'Dunno.' He jumps having made a decision onto the concrete slabs of our path. 'See yeh.' He slouches away. But he stops and looks down the street.

I can just make out a babbling noise and a kaleidoscope of colour catches the corner of my eyes. I turn my head to sneer. Down at the bottom of the street pint-sized Frankensteins are gathering, masks on squidgy faces, mini-witches coming out of hibernation and dancing round the stark and stiff legged totem pole of the honorary adult.

'Hing on.' I shout after Jim and hop and jump down the stairs even though I've no shoes on. Grey nylon socks stick to my feet, sponging the wet of the path.

He waits at the gap in the privet hedge.

'Hundreds of them kids got mugged last year by boy from the top of the hill and had all their stuff taken off them.' I nudge my head down towards the little ones who are now at the MacGrath's gate at the bottom of the hill, working their way up, house by house.

'Bastards.' Jim grogs a greener on Daft Rab's overgrown lawn.

'Fuckin' bastards! I'll tell you whit I'd dae with them.'

'Aye!' Jim tugs at the lobe of his ear. 'Me too.' He turns to go.

'I'll need to take my wee brother out...you know?' My feet squelch, grey slugs on the turn as I head back.

'Aye, I'll see you in ten minutes.' His tone is I couldn't care less.

Mum dresses Bod up with an eye patch and eye-liner scars. He's a brown-paper pirate that rustles as he walks. The hat is real enough. One of Our Jo's ridiculous efforts that she wore to a wedding. The colour is all wrong, being a kind of pukey yellow. He's a wooden sword hung in his red and blue snake-belt. I hurry him out the door. We usually go up to McLaughlin's first. They give you chocolate and don't try and feed us nuts as if we were stupid squirrels.

It's dark outside, but not dark enough, in the garish street glow of obviousness anyone can see that I'm wearing two bath towels, one still slightly damp and musty smelling, held together by nappy pins. I'm the kind of ghost other well-to-do ghosts would flee from. I shove Bod in the back. 'Hurry up!' I tell him. 'If it wasnae for you spoiling everything I wouldn't need to...'

I have to look twice to make sure it's Jim. He's leaning against the lamp-post at Summerville's waiting for us. My mouth falls open. He's got on a blonde wig and bright red lipstick. He's wearing one of Vanda, his glorious looking sister's, short fur jackets and his dress is red silk thing that shimmers as the thin blade of his shoulders slink forward to meet us. White lace gloves cover his hands, vine up his arms, claiming his knobbly elbows. As he clunks closer in his sister's high heels a waft of something perfumey powders my nose.

'Alright,' he says.

I have no words. It's my worst-ever nightmare. I think he looks nice.