Shug Happens 2

‘I want Shadow!’ Sean wailed and cried so much he choked like an asthmatic on his own last breath.

Mum had to hold on to her son or Sean would wriggle away and run downstairs after the puppy. ‘It’s for the best,’ she said. But there were tears in her eyes too.

Dad had smacked Sean hard on the head and on the back of my neck. ‘Don’t be so fucking stupid,’ he’d growled

 But it didn’t make any difference. Sean wouldn’t let go of Shadow. He’d buried his face in his soft fur and breathed him in through his snot. He’d kicked his legs against his dad’s arms and pushed in closer to the back wall.

Dad hauled the bed out with a dull thud as he let it drop in the middle of the room. Shadow licked Sean’s face, his eyes bright and bursting with joy, and his wagging tail thumping against his leg at the great game they were playing.

Mum’s grip slackened when they heard the banger Uncle Ronnie was driving rattling up the street. Sean wrestled out of her arms in a jiffy. Rattling down the stairs, he threw the front door open in time to see the van turning the corner. He held a hand up and waved, even though he knew it was pointless.

Mum was in the kitchen washing the dishes. She wouldn’t look at him. He wore a frayed Scotland top with a number 9 on the back that was out of date by four years and much too small. Green shorts. Thick red football socks even though it was the hottest summer since records began, because Mum didn’t have time, she’s said, to do a proper washing.

Before he’d lost Shadow, he’d prayed to God for Daz soap powder. He wasn’t even fussed if God didn’t give him any Comfort. He was pretty sure he could do a washing himself. All you did was stuff it in the drum and turn the knobs. And wait. He’d grown good at waiting.

‘I hate you!’ he bawled, red faced at his mum. ‘I hope you get cancer. Then you’ll not need to diet and your bones will crumble together like those stupid pack things you eat for crappy dinner. Then you’ll be skinny enough to fit in your skinny coffin.’

‘Sean Connolly,’ she cried, flicking water in his direction. ‘That’s enough.’

But she was smiling that infuriated him more. ‘Fuck off,’ he said.

She laughed. ‘Yer da, will get yeh something nice tae make up for it.’

‘I don’t want something nice,’ he cried, rocking back and forwards, squeezing his eyes shut. ‘I want Shadow!’

He wheeze in and out, the rancid stink of his own stale feet no comfort.

‘Yeh’ll forget about him in a few days.’ Mum tried to peg a laugh into her voice. ‘Besides, we couldnae afford tae keep ‘im. And it was too good an offer tae turn doon.’

He glared at his mum, her hands still in the rancid water, her head cocked, waiting for him to say something. He wanted to wrestle her to the ground like those TV cops and get her to admit where they’d stashed Shadow and bring it home. But he knew it wasn’t her fault. I was his da’s. One more reason to hate him more.

He turned away, weary, like an older boy. A headless Darth Vader and his Star War figurines no longer took him to new worlds. He was stuck on this one, without Shadow.

‘What a delightful way to see the world,’ said Miss Dill, when he’d told her how he’d ordered his figurines and made them ready for battle with dark forces.

Miss Dill was the younger and so highly coloured she was the more flammable of the two sisters that were brothers. She’d a drawling voice and a liking for Johnny Weissmuller in his swimming trunk.

‘I don’t know who that is,’ Sean admitted. He didn’t mind much, because they were casual with name. They usually called him Shug.

Miss Martin could be rather gruff. His smile like a zip-fastener. ‘Tarzan,’ he’d explained.

Sean shook his head.

‘Tarzan,’ Miss Dill took up the slack in her high voice, ‘was a bit like Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker, but everything they did with spaceships and ray-guns, Tarzan did with elephants, lions, tigers and crocodiles and with his own naked manly body.’

She was getting overly excited.

‘Up-sa-daisy!’

Miss Martin pushed a gin towards her and she gulped it down greedily.

He took a sip out of his own glass. He preferred rum. But he explained he was ambidextrous and chuckled at his own folly. ‘The water is off,’ he explained.

Their house was in a disordered state. Walls waiting to be plastered, baths and showers waiting to be fitted in the ensuites. Kitchens waited to be fitted and connected. But they’d set up shelter in one room. They called it their smoking room with rugs and an expensive low-slung table that offered a dark gleaming cluttered surface, although Sean hadn’t seen either of them smoke. Just drink, always a bottle and glass to hand.

Miss Martin handed Sean a glass. ‘No water,’ she said. ‘Gabriel sound your horn.’ Sean was the spitting image of the Angel Gabriel she’d explained before putting a tad more rouge on her cheeks.

He wondered if the Angel Gabriel wore swimming trunks. A sniff of the drink and his nose curdled. He ducked his head and took a sip. His taste buds in revolt as he choked on it.

‘You soppy thing,’ Miss Martin raised his glass and flung in back in one go.

Sean scrunched up his nose in preparation and emptied the glass in the same way. He felt himself toppling and staggering.

‘Easy,’ said Miss Dill as if talking down a horse read to rear, slapping him sharply on the chest.  

Miss Martin poured him another snifter. He found it in his hand and wasn’t sure what to do with it. So he drank it without trying to gag.

‘Whoa! cried Miss Dill. ‘The angel Gabriel has lost his wings and needs to lie down for a bit.’

She got excited again and found this hilarious.

Miss Martin pressed his lips together and shook his head. He guided Sean by the elbow out of the smoking room.