Born Free

by Laura Hird

  ‘Just don’t start, eh? You paid me to do it, remember?’

  Lunging across the room, I pin her against the wall. The drink goes flying. Pushing me off effortlessly, she goes for a refill. It’s completely wrong to hit women, I know it is, but I want to knock her fucking teeth out. She sneers at my trembling fists.

  ‘Oh, are you going to punch me now? Go on then, go ahead. Convince me there’s a man in there somewhere.’

  Can’t … stop it … can’t … can’t stoop to her level … calm, calm.

  ‘Look, enough’s enough. I want you out of here tomorrow, right?’

  ‘Oh yeah, so what are you going to do? Beat me out the door?’

  ‘Is that what that thieving bastard boyfriend of yours would do, like? Why don’t you just piss off to Mexico with him? I’ll give you a lift to the airport.’

  This seems to hit her like a well-aimed punch.

  ‘What d’you mean? Has he phoned? What did he say?’

  She’s not even got the decency to try and deny it.

  ‘… please, have you spoken to him? Tell me, Vic, tell me, please,’ she sobs.

  Unbelievable. I’m terminating 17 years of marriage here and all she cares about is that bastard. It’s tempting to make something up, string the cow along, but that’s the sort of thing she’d do. She keeps pleading, drooling and desperate. I loathe her.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, shut up. I’ve not spoken to him, right? Your mad pal took time out from servicing my colleagues to tell me. And our son heard you, you slut.’

  As she swipes the bottle off the unit, I cower beneath my hands but she disappears through to the bedroom and locks the door. Fired up with vodka, I want to let her have some more but if she goes on another rampage tonight, the police’ll probably lock me up. I’ve no option but to leave the bitch stewing. Still, one last night on the settee. Tomorrow it comes to an end.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  JAKE

  ‘IT’S GONE ALL quiet,’ whispers Joni, seconds before Mum starts wailing in the next room. I hate when Mum cries. It’s always about herself. Tonight, it doesn’t even sound like real crying, just this loud, irritating whine, obviously designed to make us go insane. As we’re all heading for Carstairs as it is, this isn’t really necessary.

  Holding my ears won’t block it out. If we put on music, she’ll just come through and kick the shit out of us. Plus, it reminds me of her getting-shagged noises which makes it ten times worse. It’s starting to feel like the room’s shrinking. Hobbling out of bed, I unlock the door. Luckily, I’m managing to put some weight on my ankle now, but it’s still fucking sore. If I was a professional footballer, I’d be out for the season.

  I want to go and check Dad’s all right but Jo’s in a mood about Mum not leaving and says she’ll hit him if she sees him. In the end, rather than be left alone, she follows me through anyway. It’s daft, being so scared in our own house. Dad’s alive but looks completely fucked and much smaller than usual, somehow. Jo starts on at him.

  ‘I’m getting sick of this, Dad, you promised. You cannae crap out again.’

  Stubbing a half-smoked fag, he looks up. His eyes are red and shiny.

  ‘I’m not, love. The police brought her home. I cannae let her go till she’s sober.’

  ‘When’s she ever fucking sober, like?’

  If I didn’t know a couple of nice women personally, I’d think they were all like this.

  ‘… well I’m having the settee. I’m no sleeping next door to that greetin radge.’

  ‘Fine, love, whatever you want.’

  Poor Dad, he tries to do what’s best. He’s just too much of a blouse to throw Mum onto the street. Where’s her fucking bloke, anyway? If she’s so into him, why don’t they just fuck off together?

  Joni, schizo that she is, is now sitting at Dad’s feet, pulling grouchy faces, trying to make him smile. He leans forward and gives her a cuddle.

  ‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart. It’ll be OK, promise, I winnae let her hurt you again.’

  Squeeze me, but when’s Mum ever hurt Joni? I’m the one whose pal’s been scared off. I’m the one with a face like Chris Eubank after one of his comebacks. This sort of thing really pisses me off. Do I give Dad a hard time? No, but I’ve hardly seen him since the night I got battered. Joni’s as bad as Mum is to him but she just needs to sook up for five seconds and it’s like I don’t exist.

  Knowing where I’m not wanted, I go to pour a bath. I’ve been too sore to wash, so I’m absolutely bogging. This wouldn’t usually bother me but the blood’s starting to smell like black pudding. I need to go downstairs and apologise tonight, so I don’t want to be minging.

  My top’s stuck to the caked blood on my chest, so I end up pulling the scabs off as I try to get out of it. Even with the wound opened, the scar looks pretty crappy. It was agony at the time but now there’s just two wee scratches. Never mind, I’ve probably caught AIDS off Shug’s smelly Stanley knife.

  The bubble bath nips like fuck. As I slowly relax, though, the pain floats off into the burny water. There’s just the burring fan and ripple of water as I soap my soreness. You’d never guess they were filming Evil Dead III just on the other side of the door. Still, the cruel world keeps invading my feelings of calm. Even the football’s fucked now. Celtic beat Kilmarnock last night and went three points ahead of Rangers. Is nothing sacred any more?

  My thoughts turn sour again, and I decide to get out before I wrinkle. Just ’cause I’m the colour of a prune doesn’t mean I want to be one. Checking the mirror, I realise it’s already too late. Apart from the forehead and chin, my whole face is covered in a browny-purple rash. I was already pretty hackitt without this. Rubbing on some skin-coloured make-up I find in the cabinet, it makes me look like a pantomime poof. When I wash it off again, my face has gone the colour of a bell-end. I give up and go to get dressed.

  I’ve already looked out the unworn, long-sleeved t-shirt Joni gave me last Xmas. It’s bright green. Joni always gets me things she knows I’ll hate but if ever there was a right time to wear it, this is it. Besides, what difference does wearing green make when there’s a fucking crucifix carved across your tits?

  Neither of them comments on my outfit, when I tell them I’m going downstairs. Joni takes five from grovelling at Dad’s feet to try and force an invite. I say I’ll come back up for her once I’ve explained about the other night. Aye, sure, I will. She’s got Dad, Rosie, Daniel … millions of people. I’ll be lucky if I’ve even got Sean.

  When I ring his bell, I’m asked who it is before it’s answered. Jesus, a nice, friendly family like that, scared to answer the door ’cause of me. My bottle’s going but it’s too late to make a run for it. Eva’s already standing there, gawping at my face.

  ‘It’s Jake,’ she shouts up the hall, like she now needs permission to let me in. It’s too much. All the shit seems to hit me at once and I burst out crying. In front of Eva as well, but I just can’t help it. Putting her arm round me, she leads me to the living room. I can feel her all warm against me. It’s barrie but it just makes me sob even more. Sean comes through as I’m sitting down. I’m so pleased to see him, I get worse.

  ‘I’m sorry … really sorry …’ bout mum. She’s mentally ill … so sorry …’

  ‘You don’t have to apologise,’ says Terry. ‘We’ve just been worried. I wasn’t really sure what to do. Would you like me to speak to someone about it?’

  I don’t care. I’m just so glad she’s smiling. Eva kneels down and studies my face again. It’s lovely. All the attention soon stops me greetin.

  ‘Did your mum do this? You don’t need to be scared. Just tell us.’

  ‘Naw, honest. It was this guy from school … Shug … he’s always doing it.’

  What the fuck? It’s about time I started telling folk about that mad bastard. Sean nods at Terry as if to say, ‘Aye, that’s probably true.’ Eva starts stroking my hair. It hurts but I’m so pleased she’s bothering I let her keep doing it.r />
  I tell them about Mum and her bloke, not mentioning the fact we’ve all heard them shagging. They’re too nice to know about something that gross.

  ‘Dad says she’s going in the morning. Go and put your telly up loud, I dinnae want you to hear them.’

  ‘We’re away early, anyway,’ says Terry. ‘We’re going down the caravan for the last week of the holidays.’

  Is this supposed to make me feel better? They cannae go away and leave me. How’s Sean no mentioned it? I bet they’re going ’cause of the other night. Oh God, I’m starting to sniffle again. They’ll think I’m such a sap. Terry squeezes my shoulder.

  ‘It’s just a caravan park, nothing flash but you’re welcome to join us, if you don’t mind sharing a bed with Sean.’

  Is she joking? The sudden unexpected possibility of something good happening, makes me go hyper.

  ‘Really, you wouldnae mind? Honest, that’d be brilliant if I could. You’re sure?’

  She frowns and my heart sinks again.

  ‘Oh, what about your mum? She won’t think we’re trying to abduct you, will she?’

  ‘She’s running off with her bloke, honest, she won’t even notice. It’ll be fine.’

  They tell me to go and check it’s all right but I ask if I can phone instead. I want Dad to say yes before Joni has time to put him off the idea. She won’t be able to handle the fact that I’m escaping for a week and she isn’t.

  Dad’s all for it, as long as Terry’ll take something for my keep. For a moment, I completely forgive him for being in love with my sister. I’ll be too sore to do much but who cares? I’ve never been away from my stinky family for more than a night. I once almost made it on a school trip to Melrose but got chickenpox three days before.

  Sean’s dead chuffed I’m allowed to go. As I’m waving my arms in the air and singing when I tell him, he probably senses I am as well. A caravan near the Holy Isle isn’t exactly Alton Towers, but who cares? It’s not home, that’s the main thing.

  I’m so excited, I decide to go and pack. Also, I’m concerned that Joni might have taken my phone call as the invite down she’s been waiting on. She’s really going to nip my head about leaving her but that’s tough. Just ’cause she’s been semi-decent to me for a couple of days, doesn’t mean I owe her anything. I’m not dad.

  Hobbling upstairs, I imagine Mum’s bloke coming staggering down towards me. I can even remember what the jaikie bastard smelt like. But I don’t give a fuck about him, or Mum, any more. I’m going to be living under the same roof as Eva for a whole week. She’s being dead nice to me as well. Maybe that’s why tomorrow’s called Good Friday. Just a pity I look like shit.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  ANGIE

  I WAKE, FACE-DOWN, on a vomity pillow. Recoiling onto my side, I see another puddle by the dressing table, next to the empty Stoli bottle. Getting out of bed, I wipe up the worst of it with a pair of laddered tights. My mind starts replaying last night’s highlights, in particular my professing undying love for Raymond to the two cops who brought me home. There’s also a hazy memory of me threatening to glass some plummy English bitch, in the Canny Man’s. Is that why I got picked up? Anti-smoking types really do my head in. I was only in Morningside to try Raymond’s flat. There was no sign of him, of course, but just seeing the place he stayed gave me a sad sort of thrill.

  I go for a shower, to remove my stomach contents from my hair. When I get out, I put on a fresh nightie. They can hardly throw me out if I refuse to get dressed. Christ, I’m going to end up a prisoner in my own dressing gown.

  Stripping off the soiled bed-clothes, I take them through to the kitchen for a root about. Joni’s on the settee under a duvet. Our eyes lock, momentarily, then she scarpers off to her room in silence. I’d have wished her happy birthday but what the hell, I wouldn’t have meant it anyway. Vic’s in the kitchen. Whether he’s leaning his hand on the boiling kettle to try and intimidate me or he’s finally lost the plot is anyone’s guess. Either way, it’s hard not to laugh in his face.

  ‘Get lucky last night?’ I smile, hoping he’ll do the same.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Joni on the settee? I thought you’d maybe had company, so she’d let you use the bed.’

  ‘I appreciate your sensitivity,’ he spits.

  As I’m not going to win the dour bastard round with humour, I revert to plan B – mock repentance. That usually does the trick.

  ‘I’ll apologise to her downstairs today. Is Jake up?’

  ‘Forget it. They’re away on holiday. Our son left with them 20 minutes ago.’

  ‘News to me.’

  His look of loathing fair has me shaking in my slippers… not.

  ‘Why should he tell you? When have you ever been interested?’

  On this I have to concede. It’s just a pity the three of them didn’t go. The kettle clicks off. He makes us a coffee. His shakes are almost as bad as mine.

  ‘Mind, you’re leaving today. I dinnae want trouble, I just want you out,’ he says coldly, as he hands me my coffee in the ‘mother’ mug. Nice touch, Vic.

  ‘Where am I meant to go, like? I don’t even have a fucking job.’

  He opens his mouth, probably to put the boot in about Raymond but no sound comes out.

  ‘… go on, what am I supposed to do … enlighten me, please.’

  Raging, he throws the teaspoon into the sink and goes to get his jacket.

  ‘I’m taking Dad up the hospital. I want you out before I go.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Vic, at least let me stay till I find another job. You’re not seriously going to put me on the street?’

  He tells me to try my sister. We’ve not even had a Christmas card from them for the last two years. When I remind him of this, he suggests a hostel.

  ‘… not a down-and-out place. There’s women-only ones, are there no?’

  ‘I’m your fucking wife. I don’t recall anything in our vows about selling the Big Issue.’

  ‘You can talk! You can bloody talk! Vows, Christ…’

  ‘We can get help. I’ve stopped drinking, really. I’ll see someone, whatever you want.’

  It’s lies, damned lies but, as he’s already late for his Dad, is enough to secure a reprieve until he gets back. On his return he promises to will phone round a few dosshouses for me. I’m so touched.

  ‘I’m warning you, though, if you’re pissed, I winnae bother. Seriously, I’ve already made inquiries about restraining orders.’

  Jesus Christ, no wonder he can’t look at me. The conspiring bastards have got it all worked out. Eyes closed and thinking of England, I try to put my arms round him.

  ‘Piss off, Angie. I know where you’ve been, remember.’

  Going for a brief tête-à-tête with his beloved daughter, he leaves. I’m left gawping at myself in the hall mirror. This is beyond a fucking joke. What the fuck is happening here? I can’t lose everything over a man who’s already dumped me. And even if he hasn’t, this is the only place he knows where to contact me. I’ll handcuff myself to the fucking radiator till he gets in touch. I fucking will.

  Shuffling through to the living room, I throw myself down at the special-occasion table. Surveying the wreckage, I dredge my brain for some possible distant happy memory of the place that might help me give a shit. Something must have kept me with that wet dish towel for the past 17 years. Every piece of furniture in here, aside from this 50s eyesore of a table we got when Vic’s mum croaked, either is mine or we got from Dad’s. Has Vic thought about that? Could they make do with his signed photo of Dennis Skinner, a few scratched singles and that ancient ten-a-penny darts trophy? Mind you, where could I put the fucking stuff? There’s enough crap in here to furnish ten Greyfriars Hostels. If I end up in a bedsit, it’ll probably be of the tiny damp boxroom variety. I can’t live like that again. I’m not a fucking teenager any more. Images of the fifty-pound a week settee I shared in an Edmonton tower block when I was an au pair, bring on a sudden, bizarre af
fection for the cluttered midden I’m currently sitting in. It’s like that temporary inability to see the shitty bits you get when someone you never really liked much dies.

  Vic can’t get this and leave me with nothing. If he divorces me, though, that’s what’ll fucking happen. I feel all possessive about my sofa and unit. If it was him, rather than me, who looked like the villain, it could all be so fucking different. Why can’t he hit me? Just fucking once, just smack me in the gob? It would change everything.

  My mind otherwise occupied, I find myself thumbing through the Thomson’s Directory for Alcoholics Anonymous’s number. My name is Angie and I’m not an alcoholic but it makes my husband feel better to hear me say I am. I can’t find it. Not in the alphabetical index, not under Advice Centres or Helplines. There’s just one number listed, in Hampshire. Great if you’re Judy Finnigan, but not much fucking use to me. It’s probably the Archery Association anyway. I wonder what happened to the two old guys from the AA who used to come head-hunting round the bookie shops, like the child-catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. What a pair of greasy-haired, purple-skinned, trembling old cunts they were. If that’s what abstinence does to a person’s face, pass me the fucking Smirnoff, quick! Sod it, I don’t need some desperate weight-watchers-of-booze to get me on the wagon again. It’s midday and I’m still sober. The day’s half over already. I need to keep straight till this is sorted out. I need some of that sane rationale that drink tends to evaporate.

  When I glance again at the still-open Heating Equipment/ Helpline page of the Thomson’s, the words Lothian Marriage Counselling Service seem to jump out at me. A bit therapy couldn’t possibly make the situation any worse. I need to be seen to be making some sort of effort. The number’s ringing before I have time to talk myself out of it. I’ve not even thought about what I’m going to say.

  ‘Eh … um … er … I’m not quite sure whether you can, y’know, help me at all … how quickly, y’know, see someone about, y’know … problems …!’