Half Plus Seven (9 page)

‘It was funny, you know.'

‘What?'

‘The joke, your joke about Pete…'

‘Oh, that, it was, uh…'

‘…funny is what it was. I'm sorry, Bill, I'm a little bit slow on the uptake at the moment. I've been listening so carefully to every word … from Pete, from Miles, on the calls to the front desk … I'd almost forgotten to look for a subtext.'

I smiled. She relaxed.

‘Pretty full on, huh?' I said.

‘Yeah, you could say that. I can't say I ever thought I'd end up in this industry, but you know, it's certainly an eye-opener and I'm learning.'

I nodded.

‘So, what about you, Bill? How long have you been here?'

‘Longer than I care to remember or realise,' I answered.

‘It can't be that bad.'

‘Which? The job or the time passing?'

‘Either?'

‘I wish it were neither,' I said.

She looked less comfortable now. I was scaring her off. ‘But it's not so bad really,' I said. ‘You know, once you get used to it. And hopefully these buddy sessions can help you, you know, settle in.'

‘Buddy sessions?' She laughed. ‘I don't think I've ever had a ‘buddy' before.'

‘Me neither,' I said ‘Friends? Maybe. Acquaintances? Definitely. Family? Unfortunately. But never a buddy. It is a bit like organised fun, isn't it? Like our parents are friends and they're forcing us to play together. Christ, if Miles were my dad I think I'd poison myself.' Her eyes glassed over at the mention of family.

‘My dad's dead,' I blurted out.

‘Mine's as good as,' she replied.

We quickly changed the subject. The rest of the session was spent talking about Nirvana. Thank god for Facebook stalking.

Chapter 9

I was running down a narrow, winding cobbled road, barefoot, scared and sweaty. I looked over my shoulder to see the progress of my aggressor; he was gaining. He, or it, was a giant, red, fleshy tomato and he looked mad. Maybe all giant red things look mad by sheer dint of their genealogy but I wasn't taking any chances. I didn't particularly like eating tomatoes, let alone being eaten by one. Keep going, Bill, towards the light, towards the light.

I tripped.

Fuck. Ouch. Fuck. Blood started to seep out of my shin. Pick yourself up, Bill. The blood had seeds in it. I put two fingers hard against the wound, to stem the tide, and lifted them to my mouth. Tomatoes. My bloodstream made up of vine-ripened sun-blushed tomatoes. I'd deal with this later. He was gaining. And he looked pissed. To the light, Bill, to the light. The sun was breaking through the end of the snaking street. I was nearly there. I looked over my shoulder. He was right on my heels now, panting, grimacing, menacing, gushing tomato juice. I ran into the light.

Something hit me hard and wet on my right temple. A horn sounded. There were bare chests and goggled faces for as far as I could see. All throwing, all dodging, all screaming. Tomato flesh was everywhere. The gutters ran red. I sank to the cobbled floor and the juice washed over me. It tasted familiar. My body sank. Underneath the liquid, I could hear a knowing, vindictive laugh.

The alarm went off. It was 7.01 a.m.

It was the weekend, which meant I didn't have to drag my bones out of bed and try to revitalise myself with a cigarette in the shower (there was a knack to it, trust me), before heading off to massage the truth for money. Oh no, today brought a different walk through the valley of the shadow of death: a visit to my mother's house. Well, not strictly just my mother's house. My mother and Barry's house. Their little shag-pile-carpeted, feature-fireplaced, trinket-strewn love nest. You'd think I had other affairs to attend to on my day off; correspondence to catch up on, petunias to prune, a sedan to wash, wax and polish, or a church hall bring-and-buy sale to co-ordinate. Well, I'm afraid all that was going to have to wait. It was their third wedding anniversary (denoted by leather, I dread to think of what they bought each other) and I had to go and bathe in their second-marriage smugness. I had to. There was no getting out of it. Was there? Could I not concoct an excuse? An embarrassing ailment that called for careful quarantining? No, I said I would go. I'd been a disappointment enough. I said I'd go.

My mother and Barry lived in an anodyne, soulless suburb. It was the kind of place social climbers moved to be away from the foreigns and the traffic and the late night noise and the drugs, but all they were left with when they got there were shit CD collections and each other. It was the home of pooper-scoopers and swinger's parties, right-wing newspapers and patio heaters. It was everything they thought they'd ever wanted, all those years ago in the dark, damp rooms of their distant youth. This was progress. This was each generation doing better than the last. Evolution needed a revolution or we were all going to be watching a Blu-ray in surround sound or at a cheese and wine party when the computers finally took over or the aliens came to fuck us up, whichever comes first.

‘How's that lovely couple you live with, love?' said my mum, flicking the bangs of her too-young hairstyle behind her ear.

‘They're good, Mum, really great,' I lied.

‘Must be a bit queer living with a couple mustn't it, Bill?' said Barry. Fat-faced, receding hairline, no soul, spawn of Satan, Barry.

‘Well, I lived with my mum and dad and they were a couple, Barry.'

‘Don't be smart, son,' said my mum. I bit my lip. ‘I wish you could find something like that.'

‘I do most nights, Mum.'

‘Oh, Bill.'

Barry bounced off his stool and strutted around the kitchen island to the ice dispenser in the fridge door, like a cockerel with rickets and a paunch. He wore black jeans, far too tight for his figure or age, and a black vest which revealed formerly muscular, currently flabby, hairy arms. Colour was provided through peroxide flecked liberally throughout his gravity and fashion-defying spiked haircut. His bouffant had been eroded on both sides by the wash of an existence in the lowest common denominator ‘entertainment' industry, leaving a sad spit of hair on the top of his head.

‘Do you want some nibbles, love? We've got some of that hummus in. Barry can't get enough of it. He's got such an exotic palate.'

‘I'm okay, thanks, mum. I wouldn't want to spoil the roast.'

Vasco de Gama would turn in his watery grave if he saw my mum's cupboards. Their shelves stocked not a sniff of a spice or a hint of a herb. My mum was a somewhat simple but effective cook, steeped in the tradition of stodge. Barry had designs on a higher station but, as with everything he tried, his voyage to the vanguard of cutting-edge cuisine came to a halt about 10 years before the present day. Hummus? How retro. We wouldn't have fed that to the Morgan & Schwarz dog.

‘Okay, love. We can go into the posh room if you like, seeing as how it's a special occasion and all.'

‘Of course, Mum. Did your card come in the post?'

‘No, love.'

‘NO? I could bloody throttle my secretary. And no flowers either?'

‘No, love.'

‘I expressly told her to… oh, look, it doesn't matter does it, Mum? I'm sorry.'

‘It's okay, love, I know you're so busy. The fact you're here is all that counts.' I'd post a card on Monday.

‘I know, Mum. We're so slammed in the office at the moment that I'm working most weekends.'

‘Well, I hope they're paying you double-time, love.'

‘Something like that, Mum.'

‘It really is a shame you can't make it tonight, love. Barry's booked a Motown tribute act – The Four Degrees. There'll be five when you get up with them won't there, Barry, love?'

‘I'm not sure about the equipment and acoustics in the club, babe, but I'll give the old lungs an airing after a few shandies, no doubt. Just like old times…'

Now don't be drawn in by his nostalgia bullshit. Old times, my fucking arse. Costa Del Sol karaoke bars still looked shit in sepia. That was Barry's Everest: running five-time weekly sing-along sessions in the sun, playing the Sonny to a revolving saloon door of desperate divorcée Chers. Which, yes, as you've guessed, was where he met my mum. Four years ago today. They married 365 days later. She'd been drawn in by the glamour, the attention, the chance to be in the spotlight and on the stage. My dad had barely put her on a bus. It's hard to know if they were
over
over when she fell for Barry's bum notes. In truth, they'd never even got started. My dad was distant and drunk, or drunk and distant. After a while it was better for him to be the latter, Mum and me got along just fine when he was out of the picture. The house was better without his brooding, boozing time-bomb around the place. You never knew when he'd be back to explode. He didn't give warning calls like the IRA. When I thought about it, really fucking thought about it, you know, objectively, I suppose in some ways Barry was better for her. Probably. At least he was there. And when he was there, he wasn't out of his head.

But I hated him.

Why?

He made my mum happy, something she'd only known fleetingly before. I hated him because – without getting all Holden Caulfield on you – he was a phoney. He had one dogshit song in the charts 40 years ago, and then pressed play on a tape deck and hogged a mike until his crow's feet kicked in. To call him a failed rock star would be a disservice to failures. But at least he tried, I suppose. My dad was trying, but he never tried, not at anything worthwhile. Maybe I hated Barry because he wasn't him. And, slowly, little by little, I was.

My mum went back into the kitchen. I looked at Barry. He looked at me. She reappeared with three glass dishes. This wasn't a roast.

‘Now, I know you said you didn't want to spoil your roast, but I've done a prawn cocktail. I know how you like prawns.' Christ, she was doing her Christmas menu. She'd bring me in some socks and a body spray and shower gel gift-pack any minute now.

‘Thanks, Mum.'

‘You're welcome, love.'

The silence we ate in was broken only by Barry's chewing. Some Thousand Island dressing dribbled onto his chin.

‘Remember Jessica Jennings, love?'

‘Who's that, babe?'

‘No, not you, Barry. Bill, remember her, love?'

‘Vaguely, Mum, vaguely.' I remembered her alright, she lived on our street. She was fat and ugly then. She'd be fatter and uglier now. Time was no one's friend.

‘Vaguely? Gosh, Bill, you practically grew up with her. Well, she's coming tonight. She's been teaching English in Japan you know. She doesn't even speak Japanese.'

‘Don't get me started on the Japanese, babe. Do not get me started. Mean, horrible little gits. Pardon my French. Very cruel people. Very cruel. They were heartless in the war, and they're heartless now. I mean, what's a bloody whale ever done to them?' Barry finished, and stuffed a prawn in his mouth.

The rest of the meal passed without much more incident. Mum trying to fatten me up, Barry playing the ageing glam rocker flirting with the far right, me just being, well, not me. I left the table and took a walk up the stairs. I still had some things, old books and records mainly, that were stored in their spare room. It was comforting to thumb through old things: a song, a sentence, a sentiment could take you back to another time, another place, another life. I liked it. Maybe needed it.

From the top of the stairs I could see their bedroom door was open. It might as well have been Pandora's Box. Silk sheets and tiger print scatter cushions. I couldn't help thinking this was a house where old people had sex. I was sick a little in my mouth. A prawn swam in the bile. I went into the bathroom, spat it down the plughole and rinsed my mouth out with water. The toilet seat called me. A shit. That's what was needed. There was something comforting about shitting in your mum's house. It felt like childhood. Not the fact that she was there to wipe your arse if needs be. Just the fact that she was there, and you were taking a dump, and she didn't give a fuck or judge you because you used to live inside of her stomach. After that, anything went. And the toilet paper, unlike at Craig and Connie's, didn't feel like it could take a coat of paint off the door.

I had some of my most meditative moments while sat on the can. The porcelain provided an escape from the maelstrom of modern life. Some much needed me time, which admittedly was used mostly to read shampoo bottles. With the diet I enjoyed, it was best not to look down at my work. Think Jackson Pollock goes New England autumn. I clocked off the job, washed my hands and stared at my reflection in the glass cabinet. Why did the smell of my own shit not make me puke? The scent was reassuring, alluring even. Maybe that's why my life was spent trudging through my own shit. I needed a new fragrance, and quick.

I opened the left hand side door of the cabinet. A head made up of half a bloodshot, bags-under-my-eyes face and half a collection of pills and potions sprouted off my neck and stared back at me. It was as if the mirror had X-ray specs and saw through my skin into the substances that whirled around inside. I slammed the door shut. Even my weary expression was better than some sci-fi vision of my insane inner workings. The apothecary belonged to Mum. She'd been a med-head for as long as I could remember. Life with Dad had written a prescription as long as the weekly big shop list. I snatched a foil packet. The label read ‘Citalopram'. I popped two little white ones. I could have done with a few Thin Lizzys before coming to visit love's middle aged nightmare.