Not the End of the World

by Kate Atkinson

  A NICE FAMILY DINNER. Nothing special.

  But Beardy Brian wasn’t family. He was a bloody stranger. A bloody stranger who was doing it with their mother—no, don’t let your thoughts even go there, Simon.

  Try and sit up straight, Simon. You’ll give yourself back problems when you’re older. “I’m not going to be older.” Don’t be silly.

  Silly? That was her, with her manners and her rules and conscience. Privileges come with duties attached. What the fuck did that mean? Silly was what Beardy Brian made her. She had new clothes on—some kind of weird ethnic shite, and makeup, which she usually only put on for parents’ evenings—theirs and hers. And he knew for a fact that she had new underwear because he’d seen La Senza carrier bags all over the place. Don’t go there, Simon.

  Beardy Brian was so boring. He was some kind of social worker, so that suited his mother down to the ground. He was gulping the good red that she’d bought two bottles of from Oddbins—instead of her usual cheap stuff from Somerfield, for the family dinner—and talking earnestly at her. “They’ve ring-fenced the funding for youth work but that’s not good enough you need a much bigger investment blah blah blah.” She loved all that stuff. Oh, it’s not even a case of investment—although it is, of course—it’s more to do with imagination, these kids have been abandoned by society and then people condemn them for asocial behavior—

  “I know, I know, it’s ridiculous, Pam.” And on and on. Big yawn. Pam and Brian. The perfect couple.

  “For God’s sake, Simon,” his sister snarled, “close your mouth when you eat. I really don’t need to see the contents of your stomach.”

  His sister actually believed she was a grown-up. Rebecca was going to be just like their mother when she did grow up. Ha ha. That would be funny—the worst thing she could ever think of was going to happen to her. That would serve her right. They used to be so close when they were little. Yeah, right, I don’t think so. Couldn’t you just once make an effort? At least Beardy Brian for dinner meant that they were having a roast. Roast pork. Sweet. They hadn’t had that since their father left. Funny that. Rebecca had some piece of vegetarian crap in a foil container.

  “You’ll fart all night,” he snickered at her.

  Simon! “What? It’s a natural bodily function. We all fart. You fart all the time.” Simon!

  Beardy Brian looked embarrassed. “She does,” Simon said. “You’ll find out. If you haven’t already.”

  Simon. Enough!

  Awkward silence, awkward for them anyway. Simon didn’t feel awkward, he just wanted to get as much dead pig down his throat as fast as possible. “Fatal Wind.” Simon giggled. I’m sorry? “Tekken,” Simon said. “It’s a character you can get called Panda. Panda’s cool, he can crush you to death. Plus he farts. Fatal Wind.” He’s a good boy really. He’s just at that age. She’d made pudding too. Tiramisu. Could almost be the name of a Tekken fighter. Heh, heh, heh, heh. “Won’t you share the joke, Simon?” Beardy Brian, being all chummy. Boys have it very difficult these days, Brian. “Tell me about it, Pam. Sometimes you wonder if they didn’t have it right in the old days, channel all that testosterone, Spartan youth, Achilles, Heracles… warriors.” Warriors, my arse, what did Beardy Brian know about warriors? Simon was a warrior, oh yes. Oh, I don’t know about that, Brian, there’s never anything good about fighting. “No such thing as a just war, Pam?” Yes, but violence is a final resort, Brian, surely?

  He was divorced but he didn’t have any kids. You haven’t missed anything, Brian. Did they really do it together? Beardy Brian with his beer belly—oh, sorry, “real ale” belly—it couldn’t be the same as sex between attractive people, it must be a completely different activity. Shagging his mother—stop! Don’t go there!

  No, but, really, it couldn’t be like shagging Buffy, not that Simon wanted to shag Buffy (putting aside the fact that she’d beat the crap out of him), she was too—what? Noble. Special. And heroic and vulnerable. You’d shag Romney Wright, you’d shag the women in porn mags, you wouldn’t shag Buffy, you’d court her. Simon felt very pleased with that word. “Court.”

  Simon, you’ve got gravy all down your chin.

  Rebecca yelped with laughter. What a wanker. Simon had several astonishing new spots that had erupted on his forehead like plague pustules. He was like some kind of biohazard. Pus at one end, methane at the other. Exclusion’s all very well, but how do you get them back into education? Jesus, was it possible to have a more boring conversation? They were having sex, she knew that, it was an appalling thought but there was no doubt about it. She had heard them—ew—they were trying to be quiet but her mother’s bed was right next to the wall on the other side of Rebecca’s, so she couldn’t help but hear the snuffling and shuffling and shushing, her mother’s suppressed giggles, Oh, God, don’t look—keep the light off! And the occasional tenor cry from him that sounded like pain. How could they sully her sleep like that? Even with the headphones on, even with Haydn’s Second Cello Concerto, Coldplay, Spiritualized, Mozart’s Flute Concerto in A—dear God, she’d tried everything—nothing muffled the fact that her mother was having it off with Beardy Brian less than a meter away from her head. How gross was that? Not even Slipknot could have exorcised that fact.

  And had she thought of the consequences? Like, was she through the menopause? She looked like she was but maybe she wasn’t. What if their mother got pregnant? Could Rebecca think of anything worse? Apart from failing her Highers, which was obviously not going to happen.

  But perhaps Beardy Brian was better than Hawk. Hawk (like he’d been christened that, yeah, right), that lunatic aberration of last year after their father left. Hawk, the guy she had hired to do all those little odd jobs that somehow in her mind had been the responsibility of their father, which was a ridiculous flaw in her memory, as their father, an advocate in the High Court, had never lifted a screwdriver in his life.

  Hawk was one of those loser hippy guys, all smug, cool, Zen philosophy and lazy smiles. You could tell he thought he was feline and irresistible but he must have been, God, at least thirty-five. He was the kind of guy who did it anywhere with anyone. Even their mother. He’d even tried it on with Rebecca one time when he was fixing a leaking tap in the bathroom, which, by the way, had leaked twice as much after he’d finished with it. He hadn’t touched her or anything, he’d just said, “Do you want to?”, just like that. As if.

  She’d heard them in the reading group, talking about him, her mother laughing, it must be because he’s got a toolbox, and them all creasing themselves as if it was some kind of fantastic joke and one of them saying, “Go, girlfriend,” like they were black or something when they were all just Corstorphine teacher-types. Once a month a potluck supper on a revolving rota at one another’s houses. All they did was eat and drink (like fish) and gossip and poke into one another’s bathrooms and wardrobes and lifestyles. They gave the book about ten minutes—Captain Corelli, The God of Small Things, White Teeth—nothing that wasn’t popular and safe and digested by someone else first. Like Beardy Brian.

  Aren’t you going to have some tiramisu, Becca?

  “It’s delicious,” Beardy Brian said, wiping his beard with a napkin. Oh, God, no, they had photographs out now. Photographs of themselves as students—Beardy Brian, bearded and boring even then, her mother all long hair and indifferent features. Oh, God, look at that cloak I’m wearing! A cloak, for heaven’s sake! Her mother’s forearm touching Brian’s shirtsleeve. What had Dad ever seen in her?

  “You were always the brainy one, Pam.”

  Why, thank you, kind sir. Yuck. Still, perhaps Brainy Brian would cushion their mother from Dad’s news. If anyone ever got round to telling her. Jenny was five months gone already. Jenny, attractive and smart and fifteen whole years younger than their mother. Rebecca quite liked Jenny.

  Where are you going, Simon? “Out.” We haven’t finished. “I have.” I thought we agreed you were grounded. “You agreed.” What are you going to be doing, Simon? Are yo
u meeting Jake and Angus? Simon, can you hear me? “Oh, shut the fuck up, will you.”

  “Simon!” Beardy Brian rose half out of his chair to remonstrate.

  “Don’t you tell me what to do, you’re not my dad.” No and I don’t see your father in this room, do you, Simon? “No, he’s with his bloody girlfriend, probably looking at bloody Mothercare shite.”

  Rebecca would have hit him if he’d been close enough. She could see that he was near to tears, he couldn’t stop his lip trembling and his spots looked as if they were going to explode.

  What are you talking about? Where are you going? Come back, Simon. Simon!

  The clatter and rumble of Simon’s skateboard faded down the street. “Jenny’s pregnant,” Rebecca said in a flat voice, avoiding eye contact, looking at the pepper grinder instead. She could feel her mother deflate. Beardy Brian was looking ill at ease. Rebecca couldn’t imagine he would actually want to be part of this family.

  Rebecca cleared away the dishes from the table. She hated the way her mother looked so pathetically grateful for this act.

  YOU WERE VERY LUCKY. An unofficial warning and no record. We don’t have to tell the school. “First offense—what are they gonna do, lock me up for life?” They probably only let you get away with it because your father was there. What’s the point of being an advocate if you can’t help your own child? “Yeah, good old Dad. Shame you had to cry all over him. ‘Oh, Alistair, Alistair.’ Pathetic.” Promise me you will never, ever—“Yeah, yeah, yeah, never do it again, cross my heart and hope to die blah blah blah. One fucking CD.”

  “How can she believe it was one CD?”

  “Fuck off, Rebecca.”

  “Fuck off yourself, Simon. You’ve stolen God knows how much stuff, your room’s full of it—CDs, games, clothes—she thinks Dad’s paying for it, it’s not like he doesn’t give you money, but I mean she must be stupid or really naive—which she is, we know—”

  “Rebecca?”

  “What?”

  “Shut the fuck up, will you.”

  “No, I won’t, it’s time somebody said something to you.”

  “Oh and you’re that person, are you? I don’t think so. You think you’re so bloody perfect. You and your friends. You swagger around school like you’re so special.” Hannah, Sarah, Emma. God, how Simon hated them, always sniggering at him, laughing at everything he said, treating him like an idiot. “A fine example of early man. Ha ha.”

  “What have my friends got to do with anything?”

  Hannah-Sarah-Emma—one entity in Simon’s head. They were all going to be so sorry one day. He was going to punch them and kick them like Paul Phoenix kicking Ling Xiaoyu until they shut their mouths. That would surprise them. Or shag the lot of them—and they’d all think he was fantastic—Hannah-Sarah-Emma, all tossing their shiny hair and going down on him and moaning, a lot of moaning—

  “Well? Can’t you speak?”

  “Shut up.”

  “You’re so articulate, Simon.”

  “You’re such a bitch.”

  “You’re such a wanker.”

  “Cow.”

  “Prick.”

  “Whore.”

  “Virgin.”

  “Cunt.”

  Simon? Simon? Did you just call your sister what I think you called her?

  “Cunt, Mother,” Rebecca said sweetly, passing her mother on the stairs. “He called me a cunt.”

  Deftones. Tekken. A Pot Noodle. Another Pot Noodle. Half a sliced pan loaf with butter and jam. One illicit can of lager. Three illicit fags smoked out of the window. One last round of Tekken. Sleep. Dreams of world dominance and Hannah-Sarah-Emma giving him a blow job.

  Mozart’s Requiem. The Portrait of a Lady. An apple. Half a bar of Dairy Milk. The cat purring on the bed. Hot chocolate and a small neatly rolled joint. Sleep. Dreams of the Chinese boy who sometimes delivered their takeaway and saving Simon from the Forth in flood. He was so dream-heavy that she thought she might have to let him slip back into the water. Then she woke up.

  REBECCA ATE A peach for breakfast. “No Brian?” No. Her mother was sitting at the table reading the Guardian and eating muesli that looked like chicken feed. “But it’s Saturday morning.” So? Rebecca shrugged. Beardy Brian always stayed on a Friday night but she didn’t really care enough to enter into a conversation about his absence. It’s a lovely day. “Mm.” Rebecca gave the cat a saucer of milk. We could go to something in the Festival this morning. “I’m going to something already.” Her mother looked at her over the top of her glasses, smiling, very teacher. Oh, what? All excited and interested. “Mozart Quartets. Queen’s Hall.” Well, maybe I could come with you? “Sold-out.” Oh. Are you going with Fraser? “Fraser? No.”

  Simon at the bus stop, head full of nothing, arms full of skateboard. There was a couple ahead of him in the queue who were trying to see how far down each other’s throats they could get. Disgusting. The old people waiting for the 41 shuffled discontentedly at this display of tonsil hockey. Simon liked that phrase, “tonsil hockey.” It was stupid and it removed any potential for tenderness. They were two of the ugliest people he’d ever seen. They were both dressed in black. The guy was tall and hairy and young with an Iron Maiden T-shirt. The girl was huge. Fat. Simon just wanted to stare at her arse and thighs. What a bloater! And not bonny, oh no. It must be like shagging a bouncy castle. And her norks! Like a hundred times bigger than his sister’s. Why was he thinking about his sister’s norks? Gross. He could see the tonsil-hockey girl’s nipples through her black top. Smuggling bullets. Heh, heh, heh.

  “Your type, is she?”

  Fucking Rebecca. “Fuck off.” The old people shuffled more agitatedly, one or two of them muttered about Simon’s language, about Rebecca’s queue jumping. The 41 sailed into view and Simon made a point of not letting the old people on first, mumbling “Day Saver” at the bus driver and rushing up the stairs to get away from his sister.

  “Don’t mind me sitting here, do you?” Rebecca said. Full of herself. She got off four stops ahead of him. Neither of them inquired where the other was going.

  Simon got off on the George IV Bridge and walked down the Royal Mile, where he met Jake and Angus in the Games Workshop. In the international newsagents Simon lifted three Cadbury Twirls, a Bounty, a packet of salted peanuts, and a can of Irn-Bru, and a Paris Match just for the hell of it. After a lot of mindless, spaceless time, they moved on and got thrown out of Starbucks. In Bristo Square they finally got round to skateboarding. Simon didn’t have pads or a helmet; no way was he going to wear that stuff where people could see him.

  Queen’s Hall Festival–goers—what were they like, milling around on the pavement outside the concert venue like a flock of sheep, waiting to be let in. They were all so early, it wasn’t like the tickets didn’t have seat numbers on them, for God’s sake. No way was she going to hang around like that. She went for a coffee in a nearby café. A guy came in and sat at the opposite table. Rebecca would lay a bet that he was going to the concert too. She wished it wasn’t people like her mother and Beardy Brian who liked classical music. This guy was bearded too. He was drinking a milky coffee and eating some kind of Danish pastry. Apricot. Little flakes of pastry fell into his beard. Gross. The guy was overweight; he shouldn’t be eating stuff like that.

  KO. You Lose. Game Over. Simon flew through the air and heard rather than felt his face slamming into the pavement. A second before that came the “oh, shit” moment, when you knew it was too late and there was nothing you could do about it. Then the moment when you cast your mind back to the previous second to try to work out what went wrong. Uneven pavement probably. Edinburgh’s pavements were crap. Could he have… but no because that moment was past and he was in the pure empty space of shock. He knew he should enjoy it because it wasn’t going to la—too painful to scream so the scream was all inside his head. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Jake and Angus bending over him. Jake laughing. “Good one, bonehead.” Angus not laughing. Angus looking like he wa
s going to boak. “Jesus, Simon, what a fucking mess.” Passersby, better equipped with brains, coming to his rescue, thank fuck. Someone wanting him to walk to the A and E—“It’s just a couple of hundred yards, son”—a woman getting all bossy talking about neck collars and fractured skulls. Warm metallic blood in his mouth and all his head rearranged. A doctor appeared, out of breath, he must have run from the hospital.

  Simon’s phone was in his hand, he had no idea how it got there, the screen was cracked. He gave it to a white-faced Angus. He was gargling blood and there were teeth in his mouth that weren’t attached to anything. He held up a finger to Angus and Angus actually understood. “Speed-dial one?” Simon grunted. Speed-dial one. “MUM,” it said on the screen.

  The Queen’s Hall was packed, the air hot and expectant. That moment of quiet when people gather themselves together and wait. You could power generators on that energy. The Queen’s Hall was some kind of church once and you could feel something now, like prayer, willing transformation to occur. Rebecca was standing in the gallery, the cheapest tickets. In the seated parts of the gallery she could see her English teacher, Mr. Petrie, from school, looking like he was going to boak (rumor had it that he was dying), Hannah’s father with a woman she’d never seen before (file that one away for later), a Gothy couple who looked completely out of place but whom she recognized from somewhere—dressed all in black, him with an Iron Maiden T-shirt, her incredibly fat (how did you get that fat? just by eating?)—and yes indeed, the bearded man from the café, standing on the opposite side of the gallery. Down in the body of the kirk (as you didn’t often get to say in a non-metaphorical way), she could see her first music teacher, who she thought was dead, and the boy of her dreams, the Chinese guy who delivered their takeaway (now that was interesting).