his cuff a bit. Beside him a skinny, ginger bloke is filling a plastic bottle with water. He is dripping with sweat, and chews gum with a bottom jaw that chomps sideways like a manic cow. His pupils are huge, like pebbles polished round and smooth, but with a warmth in them that makes a grin shoot across his still swaying mouth when he sees Jack looking at him.
‘It’s fucking heaven tonight, innit?’ ginger bloke says, with a real strong southern accent. But before Jack can even start to form an answer, the man is off, already dancing as he passes through the toilet door. Just as it’s about to close, he turns and shouts: ‘Be lucky, mate.’
F is for Family,
Fathers, Fidelity.
It was the twelfth of December, the twelfth month.
A
was twelve. The electric clock/radio by his bedside table said 12:01.
A
was waiting for it to read 12:12, he hoped there would be some sense of cosmic rightness when it did.
At 12:11 there was a knock on the door. It was Terry,
A
could tell. He hadn’t known Terry long, but there was something calmer, more patient, that separated Terry’s knocks from the rest of the staff. He knocked from genuine politeness, not formality.
‘Come in,’
A
said, although the lock was on the other side.
Terry did. ‘It’s your mother,’ he said. ‘There’s no easy way to say this.’ Though he had just used the easiest, because
A
now knew the rest.
A
’s face froze, as it tried to catch up, as it tried to register the news. Then it crumpled, and while he considered this fresh blow, the tears came.
He had known for three months his mum was dying, but still it hadn’t steeled him to the shock. Neither had the long periods without seeing her. They had only made him miss her more. So he cried. He cried for her, he cried from guilt,he cried from self-pity and he cried for the loss of his last link to love.
Terry put his arm around him. Like he meant it. Like he might be a new link.
The last time
A
’s mum had visited him in that home she reeked of perfume. As if by application of eau de toilette she could somehow persuade the staff she’d been a good mother. Maybe she was just trying to hide the stink of death. But perfume’s attraction lies in the smell of decaying fruit, and
A
could see she was disintegrating before his eyes.
She never wore make-up when she came to see him. It only ended in sad clown streaks. Probably she never wore it at all anymore. She didn’t know anyone in the town she’d been moved to, so why bother? She seemed like she didn’t even know his dad any more. She looked old, and
A
understood that she was old. Because although she was barely middle-aged, that word supposes another half of life to come; and his mother didn’t have this. She looked as ill as she was. The skin that hung limply from her face was a sallow yellow, the colour of congealed lard on unwashed dishes. When she told him that she had ovarian cancer,
A
could not dismiss the feeling that he was the seat and cause of this: the original cancer that came from those ovaries.
A
’s father had never visited. The first time that
A
saw him in eighteen months was at the funeral. He looked smart, that was what struck
A
first. He had never seen his dad in a suit, even at the trial. He looked too smart,
A
thought. He looked smarter than he looked sad. And he looked a lot smarter than he looked pleased to see
A
.
There were not many mourners. Both
A
’s parents were only children, and
A
their only child. All the grandparents were long dead. The whole family was genetically inclined to disappearing. And a lack of relations had helped his parents vanish too.
The motorcade was one car long. Two if you counted the car his mother was in; stretched out in the back of a black hearse. Three if you counted the undercover protection squad officers, who followed just in case.
Protecting who?
Terry rode with
A
and his dad, in leather luxury.
A
cried freely. His father looked out of the window.
A
wished that Terry would
‘It’s fucking heaven tonight, innit?’ ginger bloke says, with a real strong southern accent. But before Jack can even start to form an answer, the man is off, already dancing as he passes through the toilet door. Just as it’s about to close, he turns and shouts: ‘Be lucky, mate.’
F is for Family,
Fathers, Fidelity.
It was the twelfth of December, the twelfth month.
A
was twelve. The electric clock/radio by his bedside table said 12:01.
A
was waiting for it to read 12:12, he hoped there would be some sense of cosmic rightness when it did.
At 12:11 there was a knock on the door. It was Terry,
A
could tell. He hadn’t known Terry long, but there was something calmer, more patient, that separated Terry’s knocks from the rest of the staff. He knocked from genuine politeness, not formality.
‘Come in,’
A
said, although the lock was on the other side.
Terry did. ‘It’s your mother,’ he said. ‘There’s no easy way to say this.’ Though he had just used the easiest, because
A
now knew the rest.
A
’s face froze, as it tried to catch up, as it tried to register the news. Then it crumpled, and while he considered this fresh blow, the tears came.
He had known for three months his mum was dying, but still it hadn’t steeled him to the shock. Neither had the long periods without seeing her. They had only made him miss her more. So he cried. He cried for her, he cried from guilt,he cried from self-pity and he cried for the loss of his last link to love.
Terry put his arm around him. Like he meant it. Like he might be a new link.
The last time
A
’s mum had visited him in that home she reeked of perfume. As if by application of eau de toilette she could somehow persuade the staff she’d been a good mother. Maybe she was just trying to hide the stink of death. But perfume’s attraction lies in the smell of decaying fruit, and
A
could see she was disintegrating before his eyes.
She never wore make-up when she came to see him. It only ended in sad clown streaks. Probably she never wore it at all anymore. She didn’t know anyone in the town she’d been moved to, so why bother? She seemed like she didn’t even know his dad any more. She looked old, and
A
understood that she was old. Because although she was barely middle-aged, that word supposes another half of life to come; and his mother didn’t have this. She looked as ill as she was. The skin that hung limply from her face was a sallow yellow, the colour of congealed lard on unwashed dishes. When she told him that she had ovarian cancer,
A
could not dismiss the feeling that he was the seat and cause of this: the original cancer that came from those ovaries.
A
’s father had never visited. The first time that
A
saw him in eighteen months was at the funeral. He looked smart, that was what struck
A
first. He had never seen his dad in a suit, even at the trial. He looked too smart,
A
thought. He looked smarter than he looked sad. And he looked a lot smarter than he looked pleased to see
A
.
There were not many mourners. Both
A
’s parents were only children, and
A
their only child. All the grandparents were long dead. The whole family was genetically inclined to disappearing. And a lack of relations had helped his parents vanish too.
The motorcade was one car long. Two if you counted the car his mother was in; stretched out in the back of a black hearse. Three if you counted the undercover protection squad officers, who followed just in case.
Protecting who?
Terry rode with
A
and his dad, in leather luxury.
A
cried freely. His father looked out of the window.
A
wished that Terry would
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