school photos 66

John thought a hangover was something old fogeys suffered from, his neck felt chiselled out of Bridge of Don granite and he couldn’t move his head. He wanted to die lying in bed with his mum mopping his forehead with a damp rag and holding a bowl out for him to be sick into.

Instead, she smacked him hard on the back of the head. ‘Ya dirty bugger. Look at the mess you’ve made.’ Her concern was for the carpet and precious rug, not him.

    He lifted his head to mutter. ‘Someone must have spiked my drink.’

She clattered him again, harder this time. ‘They didn’t spike it enough. Get into your bed and out of my sight, before I really start on you. As if I’ve no’ got enough to contend with.’

He crawled slug-like across the living room. Negotiating the door, he moved a few notches up the evolutionary-tree into something resembling a man. Flailing like a blind man in the toilet, he crouched and grasped the womb of Shanks’ toilet-pan for support. He threw up until green bile of his stomach turned watery red and slid down the enamel bowl, his belly spasmed, but brought only gut pain.

By mid-afternoon he felt able to sip water and watch telly. His mum gave him withering looks and did everything but poke him with a stick. Auntie Caroline tutted, but looked mildly sympathetic. He was glad that her daft friend Gloria hovered in attendance, because it meant he didn’t have to feign an interest in their conversation. Jo he supposed would look smug, but he picked up from what the others said, she’d be staying with Auntie Ruth for a while. A brackish tendril explored the back of his throat and he rushed to the toilet.

When he’d settled himself back in his seat, he watched his mum stumble over the join of the carpet between kitchen and living room. Her hand trembled, her wrists white and brittle as lollipop sticks, as she passed him a glass of water and an Askitt. He recognised it as a truce, tipping his head back and letting the contents powder the pink of his mouth. She stood by his chair until he’d finished swallowing tepid water, before turning and taking the glass back into the kitchen.

He dozed to the music of Blue Peter. His fingers shaped and curved and hand-clutching habit the beginning of a loosening of his body.  A moment of extreme clarity and then falling.  He dreamt something was above him and he couldn’t breathe. He tried kicking up and out. But each breath was more hurried, shallower than the last. Things tapered. He was looking through a key-hole. The drumming sound he thought of as rain, but his bones recognised as the weight of soil. His right leg shook. A cut-throat blade of fear running through him. He clawed his way up and out of sleep, gasping for breath.

‘You’ve had one of your visions again.’ Gloria self-satisfied nod at Auntie Caroline confirmed the truth of what she said.

‘What did you see son?’ Auntie Caroline asked.

Jean sat on the couch beside her, blinking with tiredness, yawning and half-listening to her son.  

‘I don’t know.’ The fighting and surrendering in his dream leached away and his body went slack. He tilted his head, fingers dragging through his hair and scalp for the pockmarks of divots, where he was sure he’d been struck. ‘Mocking laughter. I remember mocking laughter.’ He turned and looked over at his mum to gauge her reactions. She wasn’t laughing. He didn’t tell her, he wasn’t sure if the laughter was his own.

‘You need to really listen. Open yourself up to the breath of your fellow man. The breath of life. Those that have gone before.’ Gloria flushed with satisfaction. ‘The future casts a long shadow into the past.’

Jean brushed imaginary crumbs from her legs, before standing. ‘Well, some people have got work to do.’

‘You not want to find Alison and Lily?’ Gloria suggested.

Auntie Caroline leaned forward, eclipsing Jean, but her sister held her hand up, and was first to reply.

‘Don’t get sarky with me Madame. Anymore of your codswallop and I’ll be putting you out the door, personally.  I’ve asked God for help.  I’ve asked Him till my knees buckled and my fingers fused. You know what I think?’ She looked at her son and shrugged. ‘I think God’s out there and we’re in here. I think we’re cursed. That’s what I think.’ Her voice grew calmer, as if the admission had cooled her, before sputtering and rising. ‘But I’ll tell you this lady, if there was a chance of finding my Alison I’d follow the devil to hell. I’d give my immortal soul just to speak to her one more time, to hold her one more time, and keep her safe.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.’ Gloria’s face flushed a mottled pink and she sounded contrite.

Jean ignored her, and shuffled into the kitchen. The sound of the kitchen taps running could be heard and behind Gloria’s shoulder the boiler kicked into life.  

Auntie Caroline stood, rearing up above her companion. ‘I think it’s about time you left.’

Gloria shrunk into herself. ‘Ok.’ She tried a half-smile, but it puttered into a wayward line. Her hands flicked nervously, gathering up her cigarettes and the handbag at her feet. She swayed as she stood up, but settled. Auntie Caroline waiting, escorted her out.

Gloria turned back, apologised again. ‘I shouldn’t have said that son. But you’ve got the gift.’ She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes. ‘If you need my help. You know where to find me.’ Tears trickled down her face, but she’d said her piece and was gone.